Picking Up The Pieces
by sass box
Summary: After being run down by an SUV, Mac's memory is completely gone. Faced with a man who no longer remembers who he is, Stella must reach into his past to help him remember. Can the two find the strength to pick up the pieces? Stella/Mac.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: **This is my first CSI:NY fanfic, inspired by a plot bunny that I couldn't get out of my head. I'm still new to CSI:NY, so I'm hoping the characters aren't OOC or anything. If they are, please do let me know so I can fix it.

**disclaimer: **I do not own CSI:NY, I'm just borrowing the characters.

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**chapter one**

All in all, it was a good day for a police chase. It was a crisp fall day, slightly sunny, and not too cool. The street was wide, fairly unobstructed, and low traffic. Mac Taylor had to give Robbie Cortland props for choosing a nice, low-risk place to be chased. Robbie was also slightly drunk, enough to be stumbling over his own feet as he blundered down the street, overturning trash cans and shopping carts in a frantic escape attempt.

Mac gave chase, feet pounding the pavement, gloved hands gripping his Glock firmly. He could hear Stella Bonasera's breath behind him, and smell her perfume in the breeze. He could see Don Flack running towards them from the other side, hoping to cut the suspect off. He was gaining ground rapidly, reaching out to grab the back of Robbie's hoodie and pull him down to the pavement.

There was a rumble of wheels on the pavement behind him, and Robbie twisted away. Mac scrambled for him again, regaining his balance.

"Mac!" screamed Stella, who was trailing behind him. Time slowed down, and she put on a burst of speed, struggling to reach him before the SUV barreling down the quiet street did. Her lungs burned with the effort, and her throat felt raw from shouting. "Look out!"

He looked up, giving Robbie the advantage he needed to stagger to his feet and throw himself to safety. Stella could only watch as his blue eyes widened in horror as he saw his reflection in the hood of the black SUV speeding towards him. There was a sickening crunch as the grille collided with his body, and he rolled up and over the hood, shattering the windshield.

Stella's hands flew to her mouth as she watched her boss spin off the windshield and crash to the pavement. His head bounced off the asphalt, and then he lay sprawled in the road, limp as a ragdoll.

The truck roared off down the street, coating them both in exhaust fumes.

His fingers twitched, and were still. A thin line of blood trickled from his temple, and bruises were already painting a dark watercolour across his cheekbones. She wanted to dry heave, but instead of finding a trashcan, she forced herself to stand shakily, and bolted over to him, fingers reaching for his neck instinctively, checking for a pulse. His heartbeat hummed weakly under her fingertips. "Flack! Call 911!" she gasped, as the dark-haired detective sprinted over to her, already dialing.

She wanted to loosen his tie, so he could breathe more easily, but knew she couldn't move him in case of a spinal cord injury. She wanted to dab the blood from his forehead, but knew that would be compromising evidence. Feeling dizzy, she settled for taking his hand gently in hers. "Mac, squeeze my hand if you can hear me," she said softly. "Please, Mac. Squeeze my hand. Please."

His fingers were lifeless in hers, squeezing her heart like a vise.

"Stell, the paramedics are on their way," Flack said, putting a soothing hand on her shoulder and pulling her back slightly.

Stella nodded, biting her lip as she looked up at him, tears gathering in her eyes and threatening to spill over. "He has to be okay, Flack. He just has to be."

"He's still breathing, Stella. He shouldn't be, after that, but he is. He's a tough guy. He'll pull through," he said, trying to convince himself just as much as her. He didn't want to admit that it didn't look good.

Sirens wailed in the cool autumn air, and Stella looked up hopefully, as an ambulance turned the corner and stopped, the back doors opening. Paramedics jumped out, carrying a stretcher, and the quickly lifted him onto it, checking his vitals.

"Stella, you can go with him; I'll call Jess to help me process the scene," said Flack, already unfastening the latches on the crime scene kit. He pulled out a pair of tweezers and began bagging shards of broken glass from the windshield and the headlights.

Stella paused, torn between wanting to go with Mac but knowing she could do nothing for him, and wanting to help Flack process the scene. "I'll stay here and help you. I can help Mac more if I'm here collecting evidence than waiting at the hospital," she replied determinedly, watching as Mac's inert body was loaded into the back of the ambulance. The doors shut with a kind of finality, and the sirens blared as the vehicle sped away. Her eyes followed it until the bright lights disappeared.

The next few hours passed in a blur, and Stella found herself stepping out of Flack's car in front of the hospital, the wind all of a sudden biting her exposed skin. Shivering, she adjusted her navy scarf, and tucked her hands into her coat pockets, as she stepped through the automatic front doors of Trinity General Hospital. The bright lights made her head pound as she headed for the front desk.

"May I help you, miss?" asked a sweet female voice, and Stella whipped around, trying to collect herself enough to speak. She leaned heavily on the desk, the room swirling around her.

"Can you tell me where Mac Taylor is?" she asked, voice trembling.

"Room 325, Trauma Ward," said the nurse on duty kindly. "That's on the third floor."

"Right. Thanks." Managing to toss a thin smile in the woman's direction, Stella turned and hurried towards the elevator. She hit the up button, and was just waiting for the doors to open, when she heard a familiar voice.

"Stella, wait up!" called Flack, rushing across the shiny floors towards his friend. He skidded to a stop and smacked the doors, holding them open so she could get in. "I called the rest of the team. They're on their way. Do you know how Mac's doing?"

Stella shook her head, dragging her teeth across her lower lip. "Nope. He's in Trauma, though."

"He's going to be alright," said Flack reassuringly, patting her shoulder.

The doors opened, and they stepped into a busy, well-lit hallway, bustling with doctors and nurses in neat scrubs. Stella paused for a second to figure out which direction they needed to go, and then began to walk towards his room, which was filled nurses. They were taking blood samples, adjusting the oxygen mask, and inserting a more permanent IV in the crook of his elbow.

She watched as they transferred him onto a gurney and wheeled him out of the room.

"Are you here for Mac Taylor?" asked a male nurse, straightening his stethoscope.

"Yeah, we're his friends," said Flack quickly. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Why don't you take a seat?" he suggested, ushering them to a row of chairs just outside Mac's room, and waiting until they had both dropped heavily into them before continuing, "Mr. Taylor is in rough shape. They're taking him for a CT scan right now. He's still unconscious and I think they're putting him in a medically-induced coma until they can determine the extent of the brain damage."

"Brain damage?" asked Stella, gripping the arms of the chair until her knuckles turned white.

"He has a severe concussion, whiplash, as well as a few hematomas, and broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder," he replied. "However, if he wakes up, he'll be able to make a recovery. Mr. Taylor's a tough guy. He won't likely be awake for a while, but if you want to wait, feel free. There's coffee and food in the cafeteria."

"Thank you, you've been very helpful," said Flack, patting Stella's arm again, as the nurse excused himself and headed off down the hallway.

Lindsay and Danny arrived first, flanked by Hawkes and Jess, who toted piping hot Starbucks coffees. Hawkes was carrying a kit for processing Mac and his clothes.

Lindsay pushed a cup of coffee into Stella's hands, while the rest of the team settled themselves in for a wait.

Flack accepted a steaming cup from Jess, barely managing a smile as she sat down next to him, squeezing his hand gently.

"How's he doing?" asked Danny, breaking the tense silence, and sipping his coffee.

"Not so good. They're talking severe concussion, possible brain damage, as well as broken ribs and a few hematomas. Prognosis is pretty good, though," Flack said, summarizing the nurse's conclusion.

"He's having a CT scan right now," Stella put in, wrapping trembling fingers around the warm cup, letting its heat seep into her skin and soothe her. "They're going to put him into a coma for a few days."

"Shit," Danny breathed softly. "I knew it was bad, but I didn't think it would be this bad."

"He'll be okay," said Lindsay calmly, as the nurses wheeled Mac back into the room, and transferred him back to his bed, attaching the IV to its port and switching his oxygen mask.

Stella waited until the medical staff cleared out, leaving Mac alone, hooked up to more tubes than she could count, and looking not at all like the Mac she knew. There were abrasions and bruises covering the entire right side of his face, and his nose had obviously been smashed and set. His skin was waxen and there was an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

"Oh, Mac," she murmured, moving a little closer to sit by his bed, and taking his hand. "We're going to find who did this to you, I promise."

With a final caress of his non-bruised temple, Stella stood reluctantly to let Sheldon into the room. She slipped out the door as he began to photograph Mac, gently peeling down his hospital gown to get a better look at the lacerations. The camera flashed and she dropped into her seat next to Flack, sitting back and getting as comfortable as possible in the hard plastic chairs.

Sheldon emerged an hour later, laden down with fingernail scrapings, paint traces, glass pieces, and hair samples. He gave the team a small smile. "He's still out, but he looks pretty good for a guy who just got hit by a car," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Where's Lindsay?"

"She's getting Mac's clothes so we can process them," replied Danny, crumpling his coffee cup in his hands, and getting up to toss it in the garbage. "There's probably going to be paint traces and glass and asphalt that can help us identify the vehicle. Did anybody get a license plate?"

"I got a partial. We can run it back at the lab," said Flack, pulling his memo book from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and handing the page to Danny. "It was a black SUV, New York plates. The driver was a Caucasian male, brown hair and medium build from what I saw, which wasn't much."

"A black SUV in New York? Talk about a needle in a haystack," muttered Danny, scuffing the toe of his running shoe against the shiny tiled floor.

"Maybe not as much as you might think. When the SUV hit Mac, he shattered the windshield and headlights, as well as leaving a big dent in the hood. With that kind of damage, the car is going to need immediate repairs," Flack said, making a note in his memo book. "We can cross-reference black SUV with the partial we got, and see if anything pops. Then, we can see if it was taken anywhere to be repaired."

"We know Robbie Cortland had gang ties, and we tried to arrest him in his neighbourhood. If his knight in shining armour had gang ties too, then we can try looking up mechanics in the area," added Stella, draining her coffee.

"Sounds like a plan." Flack stood up, looking over at Mac's room, and shaking his head slowly. "I feel like I need to be doing something. I can't stay here and just watch him lie there. I'm going to run the partial. This case just got personal." He clenched his fists at his sides, and pivoted, preparing to head back to his car.

"We're pretty close to closing our case," said Danny, shuffling his feet. "As soon as we're done we'll come and help you get this son of a bitch who tried to kill Mac."

"Stella, are you going stay here?" asked Jess, putting down her coffee cup, and putting a gentle hand on the brunette's arm. "We can handle things back at the lab, if you want to stay here and see how Mac's doing."

Stella took a deep breath, considering it. It was tempting to stay here and just watch him, to make sure his chest continued to rise an fall, but she knew that wasn't going to help. Besides, with what the nurse had said, she knew he'd be out for at least a few days. She cast him a lingering look, and then stood up. "I'll come with you. We can start running the traces Sheldon got off Mac, see if we can match the paint."

"You want a drive?" offered Flack, twirling his car keys around his index fingers.

"Yeah, I'll go with you," said Stella, following him out of the hospital.

* * *

Stella showed up in Mac's room at 8:00 am the next morning, and settled in for the long haul. She brought her laptop and ran fingerprints and traces from her seat in the chair next to Mac's bed. The case had hit a dead end, but they were determined to work through it. She typed one-handed, the fingers of her other hand entwined with his limp fingers.

All the while, she was silently begging him to wake up, or move, or just give her some sign he was going to be okay.

Flack and the rest of the team alternated between sitting with Stella at Mac's bedside, and the lab. There were tense, hurried conversations in the cafeteria, over cups of acrid coffee. There were discussions of medical terms. They studiously avoided mentioning that Mac might never wake up, or that it might take days, or even weeks.

Five days after the accident, Stella was curled up in a chair next to his bed, trying to ignore her aching legs. She shifted, trying to get more comfortable, and put down her laptop. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed. She was exhausted, and ready to drop. She was almost asleep, head drooping against the chair, when there was a small rustle of blankets next to her. Brushing it off as a figment of her overtired imagination combined with wishful thinking, Stella barely cracked an eye. Mac hadn't moved in five days.

It was the low moan that caught her attention. Then, his eyelids flickered lightly, and his fingers twitched ever so slightly against hers. His bright blue eyes opened slowly, and his gaze locked with hers.

"You're awake!" she exclaimed, resisting the urge to throw herself over the rails of her bed and wrap her arms around him. Relief flowed through her like a river of warmth.

Stella had seen and heard many disturbing things in her years as a homicide detective, but nothing could have prepared her for what came out of Mac Taylor's mouth next, accompanied by a vacant sapphire stare.

"Who are you?"

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I hope you've enjoyed reading it so far. If you liked it, please drop me a review to let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: **Thanks to everybody who reviewed/faved/alerted, especially CAT217, lily moonlight, Craftygirl11, and Angelhaggis. I really appreciate it!

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**chapter two**

He woke up in a strange room. It was tidy, impersonal, and white. The wide window to his right showed a phenomenal view of a skyline. Aware of a strange pressure and warmth on his hand, he turned his neck ever so slightly, wincing as his muscles screamed in protest. He found himself looking into the face of a gorgeous woman.

She pushed her wild curls out of her face and stared intently at him, before exclaiming, "You're awake!"

His eyes widened, and he jerked his hand roughly away, whimpering as the pain came roaring back from the small movement. Before he could consider the consequences, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Who are you?"

Her face changed immediately, the light extinguishing in her green eyes. She recoiled as if he'd slapped her, and folded her hands in her lap, a flush rising to her cheeks. "I'm Stella, Mac. It's me."

"Who's Mac?" he asked, blue eyes wide and confused. He struggled to sit up, aware of a dull ache in his chest. Every muscle and bone hurt, and he admitted defeat and lay back down, never taking his eyes off her face. He'd never seen her before.

"You are. You're Detective Mac Taylor, NYPD. I'm Stella Bonasera, your partner," she explained slowly, tears in her eyes.

"Stella…" he said, testing the words out in a raspy voice. "I don't know a Stella. I don't know you. I've never seen you before."

"Eight years," Stella murmured softly, staring at her fingers, which were trembling in her lap. Eight years, gone just like that.

"You're awake," said one of the doctors, hurrying into the room. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and approached the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," replied Mac, shifting uncomfortably. He stared over at Stella again, and frowned. Despite her insistence that she knew him, he didn't recognize her.

"I'll get you some painkillers," said the doctor, beginning to refill the almost-empty IV bag with fluid. "Now, I'm just going to check a few things. Do you know where you are?"

"No." Mac shook his head, and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to remember. He had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten in this bed.

"New York," Stella supplied, letting her gaze trail off and drift over the skyline. The view was stunning, as Mac had been moved to one of the top floors after being deemed stable.

"Where's that?" he asked, eyes wide. "It's beautiful."

Stella sighed, carding her hands through her messy curls. He really didn't remember anything. She felt her heart breaking for him. He would have to start over. Maybe it was for the best, she mused, not having to know about Claire… But Claire was an indelible part of his life, and even though she was gone, he would have to relearn about her life and death. She didn't want to watch his heart shatter again when he realized he'd lost the only woman he'd ever loved.

"The United States of America," the doctor said gently, running his hands over Mac's body to check the abrasions and bruises. He ripped open a gauze pad and began to change the bandages on the road burn on Mac's face, stopping whenever his patient winced in pain.

"Okay." Mac still clearly had no idea, but he seemed determined to go with it.

"Do you remember your name? Birthday? Anything?" pressed the doctor, throwing away the soiled gauze pad.

Stella tried not to look at the mixture of blood and sticky yellow fluid that coated the pad. She waited tensely for Mac's reply, hoping he could recall some essential detail.

"I – don't know," he said, haltingly. The look on his face reminded Stella of a lost young boy. She'd never seen him look like this before.

"I don't know who I am."

Head reeling, Stella kept a tight grip on the arm of the chair. Black dots began to sparkle around the edges of her vision. Fighting the dizziness, she reached out and took his hand, wrapping the cold digits in her warm ones. "Your name is McKenna Llewellyn Taylor, nicknamed Mac."

"McKenna Llewellyn Taylor, nicknamed Mac," he repeated softly, trying it out. "Stella, what happened to me?"

Stella ran her thumb gently over the back of his good hand, trying to keep the tears in. She'd relived those few minutes over and over again on a constant loop for the past five days, and the last thing she wanted to do was tell him what he'd endured. "We were on a case, and you and I and Flack – that's one of your detectives – were chasing a suspect. You almost had him, and then we saw the SUV coming right at you. It hit you before you could even react. I guess you hit your head pretty hard," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, gauging his reaction.

"I was hit by a car?" he asked, blue eyes widening again. "Oh. That explains a lot."

"We thought you were dead. I haven't seen Flack that upset in – oh, ever," she replied, attempting to keep her tone light.

"When do I get to meet them?" he asked, sitting up a little more.

Stella fingered the phone in her pocket. "I can call them now, if you want. I'm sure they'd hurry over here. Is that okay?"

"That's okay with me, just don't tire him out. This is a lot to handle," said the doctor. "Is there anything you need, Mr. Taylor?"

"A drink, please," said Mac, swallowing. His tongue felt parched, and thick in his mouth.

"I'll be right back."

Stella stood up, waving her phone. "I'll be right back, too. I'm just going to go call the team and see if they can come over." She was on her way out of the room when Mac's hand shot out and grabbed her free wrist.

"Please don't go," he whispered, eyes pleading.

Stella's heart melted like butter in a hot skillet. "I'll stay," she said, punching in Lindsay's number. She knew the CSI would answer her phone.

"Hey, Stell, how are things?" the woman asked, a few seconds later. "How's Mac?"

"I can't really explain right now, but he's asking for everyone. Can you round up the team and come over?" Stella said, sighing. "He's in room 1245."

"We'll be right there. Tell him we're coming," said Lindsay, already slipping out of her labcoat. "Much love, Stella."

"Thanks," Stella said weakly, hanging up and tucking the phone safely into her jacket pocket. She tapped her fingers against her thigh, nervously. She had no idea how she was going to break the news that yes, Mac was awake, but he wasn't the Mac they knew and loved.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard the footsteps and her heartbeat began to race. She stood up, gently dislodging Mac's grip on her wrist, and tiptoed towards the door.

"Where you going?" he slurred, cracking one eye.

"Give me two seconds," she replied, folding his hand tenderly back over the blankets, and slipping quietly out of the room.

"Hey you," Lindsay said quietly, pulling her friend into a tight hug. "How's he doing?"

Words spun through Stella's head, big, fancy words like traumatic retrograde amnesia, and she shook her head mutely. "He doesn't remember anything. When he woke up he didn't even know where he was. He doesn't know his name or any of us," she said heavily, twisting a curl around her finger and letting it spring back into place.

"None of us?" interrupted Danny, a pensive expression on his face.

"You can try, but don't expect anything," Stella advised, with a half-shrug.

"I'll go in," offered Flack, sliding past the group and through the doors. He sat on the chair nearest Mac's bed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

The noise of his chair skidding across the floor woke Mac, and he looked up at Flack, blue eyes hazy. "Who are you?"

"I'm Don Flack, one of your team members," explained Flack patiently, his bright blue eyes dimming. He had been hoping for at least a flicker of recognition, but Mac's eyes remained blank. Shaken, his shoulders dropped and he stood up, brushing invisible specks of lint off his crisply-creased black slacks. "I have to go. I'll be back."

Danny went in next, settling into the chair. He swallowed hard, feeling a little awkward, and straightened up. "Hi, Mac. I'm Danny Messer. I was on your team, and even though you probably don't remember, you've been a great friend. Maybe we'll be able to make it up sometime."

"I'd like that," Mac said, with a trace of a smile. "It's nice to meet you again, Danny."

"Yeah, we'll have to get coffee," agreed Danny, as he got up, rubbing his eyes. "I should, uh, go. The rest of the team wants to see you, too."

Lindsay emerged from Mac's room five minutes later, and promptly collapsed into Danny's arms, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "That's not Mac," she whispered, tightening her grip on his torso. "Mac knew all of us. He knew more about all of us than we thought he did."

They never did get what happened in that room out of her.

"He's asking for you," said Angell, when she cracked open the door and entered the hallway. Her eyes were wide as she dropped into the empty seat next to Flack. "Wow, I mean, I knew it was bad, but I didn't know that it was _that_ bad."

"It's pretty bad," Stella admitted, standing up. "I guess I'd better go. Thanks for coming."

"Stella, can I have a minute?" asked Flack, walking her over to a quieter area of the hallway and tilting his head towards her. "Look, I hate to say this, but we need you back. I know you're tied up with Mac, and we both know he needs you, but Hawkes and I can't handle this alone. We need fresh eyes. Can you please come back for just a little bit tomorrow?"

She bit her lip as she caught the desperation in his electric blue eyes. "Don, I'm so sorry. I know I've been so pre-occupied. I'll be back in tomorrow. We need to get this guy."

"Thank you," he replied, pulling her into a comforting hug. His hand rubbed her back gently through the blazer, and she inhaled the scent of his cologne and aftershave, letting the familiar mixture soothe her.

"I need go see him," she said softly, as he pulled away. "I think we have some catching up to do. Thank you so much for everything."

He gave her a small smile, eyes troubled. "It's no problem, Stella. We're a team; never forget that." With that, he stuck his hands in his pockets and headed back to Angell, taking her hand as they left together.

"I'm back," Stella said, settling in by Mac's bed, and scooting the chair a little closer. She was a little taken by surprise when his hand reached out and closed securely around hers. The old Mac Taylor shied away from physical contact. She reminded herself with a shudder that the old Mac Taylor was gone. And besides, she kind of liked the warmth of his skin against hers. Even though he was lying in a hospital bed in a johnny gown, it felt so right.

"Can you tell me about my life?" he asked, taking a sip of water from the cup on his night stand. The cup wobbled in his feeble grip, and her hand shot out instinctively to steady it before it could spill.

"Oh, Mac, that's a hard one. I probably don't even know a quarter of it," she replied, eyes smarting with a sudden rush of tears.

"Should I take notes?" he asked seriously, looking up at her with the eyes of a child.

Stella laughed, because if she didn't, the tears would have been impossible to keep back. "Where's your paper?"

"I don't see any." He frowned, looking around the barren hospital room. "I'm not even sure I remember how to write."

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, and her face must have fallen, because he hastily reassured her, "I get the concept of writing. I'm just not sure I can remember the symbols."

"Letters," she corrected automatically.

"Letters," he said, and she could see the gears turning as he tried to commit that word to memory. "The alphabet has letters."

"The alphabet has letters," Stella echoed softly to herself, eyes drawn to the skyline, and the thousands of windows reflecting the setting sun. Rousing herself, she said briskly, "Don't you want me to tell you about your life?" She ran her index finger under her lower lashline to catch any stray wetness and save her eyeliner.

"Yes. Please tell me my life story," he said, struggling to sit up, and grimacing as his muscles cried out in agony. With a small whump, he fell back hard against the pillows.

"Here." Stella reached out to crank his bed up, and bent over him, helping to secure the pillows so he could at least be comfortable. "Are you good?"

"You're an angel," he breathed, giving her a dazed half-smile. "Can you tell me, now?"

"Mac," Stella laughed, once again in an effort to stop the tears. "How am I supposed to tell you everything when I barely know any of it?"

His eyes were desperate, pleading with her. "Please, Stella, just try. I need to know."

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Did you love it? Hate it? Want to see something happen? By all means let me know!


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n**: Thanks so much to everyone who's read, reviewed, faved, and alerted! It seriously means a lot, and I hope you all like this chapter. As always, please do let me know if you do! Thanks especially to BnBfanatic, BeTheDream, CAT217, lily moonlight, rocksmacked, Craftygirl11, and tlh45.

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**chapter three**

Stella sighed, and carded her fingers through her unruly curls. She looked over at Mac, lying in the bed, and his eyes caught hers: deep, blue, and uncharacteristically pleading.

"Okay," she conceded, drawing in a deep breath. Where on Earth did one start with the life story of man she'd thought she'd known? It was beginning to dawn on her that she'd barely scratched the surface of Mac Taylor.

"Let's start with my birthday," he prompted, voice still husky from disuse.

Stella nodded, swallowing hard. "November 1st, 1965. Chicago. I don't know much about your childhood, but your dad was in the Marines. He helped free Auschwitz at the end of World War II, and from what I gather, he was a very brave man. You take after him." She smiled somewhat shakily, moving a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Later, you joined the Marines, too. You were in Beirut during the 1983 barracks bombings, but I do know that that's where the scar on your chest comes from. I also know that you tried to save the life of a younger Marine, but he, uh, didn't make it," Stella continued, watching his face intently, trying to gauge if she should continue or not.

"He didn't?" Mac's face fell, and his gaze dropped to the crisp sheets. He twisted the hem between his fingers, pleating the fabric tightly. A surge of emotions flooded through him, but he had absolutely no idea why. He didn't even remember his comrade, but that didn't stop a rush of guilt from fogging his head, making his fingers tingle with the sudden intensity.

"You did everything you could. You saved Flack's life last year in the same way you tried to save the Marine's life. So don't ever feel like you didn't try," she said softly, handing him the cup of water. He sucked the straw, eyes never leaving her face. His searching gaze was haunted, hollow.

"While you were still in the Corps, your dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. He spent the last few months of his life on a feeding tube." Stella took a deep breath. How was she supposed to tell him that he had refused a deathbed wish?

"Go on," he pressed, eyes rapt.

"He asked you to pull the plug. You didn't do it," she said, feeling her lashes flicker against her cheeks as she looked down at the floor, studying the tile pattern with everything she had, just to avoid the tragedy she knew was written on his face.

"Oh." There was a rustle, and he deflated, fingers going limp on the section of sheet he was studiously wrinkling.

"Mac, I'm so sorry…" said Stella, inching her fingers a little closer to his, in case he needed something tangible to hold onto. His fingers brushed hers, warm and sweaty, and then pulled away.

"We all have tragedies. I'm sure you have yours. Besides, I don't even remember." He laughed bitterly, tucking his hands inside the blankets. His shoulders drooped visibly, and she longed to square them with her hands, smoothing out the tension. A few minutes later, he raised his face, and murmured, "Please continue. I know it's hard, but I need to know."

"Then I need to tell you about Claire."

"Who's Claire?" he asked, innocently.

Stella's heart clenched tightly. She had never imagined that she would have to tell him about the woman he had once loved and lost. She felt her head spinning. She could deal with him forgetting her, but forgetting Claire seemed like sacrilege. Eleven years of marriage was gone, just like that. "She was your wife."

"I was married?" His eyes darkened as he slowly pulled his hand out from under the sheets, and twisted the wedding band back and forth, as if he'd just become aware of its existence. "Why isn't she here with me, instead of you?"

"She's dead, Mac," Stella replied gently, feeling his fingers tighten around hers, almost painfully. "She died when the Twin Towers fell on 9/11. I'm sorry."

"Can I go visit her grave when I get out of here?" he asked, fingers loosening their death grip a fraction. He was still holding onto her as though she were the only thing that was real in his world.

"They never found her body, Mac. She was never buried," Stella said, wishing she could at least give him the comfort of a gravesite, but she had nothing to offer him, no evidence of the bond they'd shared aside from a single gold band.

"I – I think we need to stop for a bit. I need some time to absorb this," he stammered, leaning back against the pillows and examining his ring, twisting it in between his fingers. He wished desperately that he could remember something – anything – about the woman who had been important enough to exchange rings with. He screwed his eyes shut, hoping for a shard of a memory to come back, fingers pressing against the simple braided band. His mind refused to comply; the stubborn blankness drew tears to his eyes, and he turned away before Stella could see them fighting to escape. "I think you should go now."

"Of course. Do you want me to come back tomorrow?" she asked, standing up. The sudden flintiness of his tone had cut her to the quick, but she held her chin up and refused to let it show through, masking her sadness with a smile.

"I'd like that." It was so soft, she almost missed it, in the rustling of her jacket and the scraping of her chair on the floor as she pushed it back.

Feeling weighted down, Stella left the hospital and headed home, leaving Mac Taylor to mourn for the wife he'd never known and would never get a chance to know.

* * *

Stella walked into the lab at quarter to eight the next morning, with not exactly a bounce in her step, but a strong, purposeful stride. It was time to get back into what she did after a week of part-timing it. She headed down to autopsy to say hi to Sid and give him an update on Mac's condition.

"Hi, Stella. How are you doing?" asked Sid, unclipping his glasses and looking up from the body he was working on.

"I'm fine. I just wanted to give you an update on Mac," she said, moving a little closer.

"Has he remembered anything yet?" asked the medical examiner, pulling the sheet over the body, and giving Stella a piercing look.

"No. I had to tell him about Claire last night, and he didn't take it very well. It was tough losing Claire the first time; the second time was brutal," Stella explained, sinking into a nearby chair. "I just want him to remember her. She was so important to him, and how she's gone."

"Even with severe traumatic retrograde amnesia, it is possible for him to regain some memories," Sid said soothingly, putting down his scalpel. "Try taking him to some places he used to know. It might trigger something. Why don't you go help Flack with the case now? Come back later and we'll have some tea and talk about it."

"Thanks, Sid," she replied, already in anticipation of the steaming beverage in her hands. She stood up, and he hugged her suddenly, holding her tightly in a comforting embrace.

"You can do this, Stella."

Nodding, she left the lab feeling just a tiny bit lighter. She almost ran Flack down turning a corner, and once he'd regained his equilibrium, he pulled her into her second hug of the day.

"It's good to have you back, Stella."

"It's good to be back," she replied. "What do we have?"

"Nothing on the repairs, but we did get a trace on the paint. It's from a 2010 Nissan Armada," said Flack. "We actually had a few other paint traces, so it looks like that our mystery vehicle had a few other hit and runs. We're just running it for repairs now. In the condition Mac left it in, it certainly wouldn't have been drivable."

"That's a start," Stella admitted, walking into the lab. "Have you cased the nearby mechanics yet?"

"We've started, but maybe you and Danny could head over to a few," he said, motioning Danny over. "Ask if they've repaired any Nissan Armadas recently, and ask about our murder vic. Also, see if you can get a whereabouts on Robbie Cortland. He hasn't made any credit purchases since the accident."

"Sounds good," Danny said, lifting his coat off the chair it was draped over, and sliding it on. "Do you have a list of places to go?"

"Right here." Flack handed him a print-out with the names of three gang-affiliated auto repair shops.

"I'll go with him," Stella volunteered, tightening her scarf.

Nodding his head, Danny turned to go get his coat. "I'll meet you in the car."

* * *

The first two auto shops were a bust. There was absolutely no evidence that anybody working for them had had anything to do with the murder, or the hit and run.

"It's gotta be the next one," said Danny, blowing on his icy fingers and rubbing them together, as the two headed reluctantly back out into the frigid November day.

"I hope so." Stella set her mouth as she got behind the wheel of the dark car, turning on the heat as soon as the engine roared to life. She parked a few blocks down from the next mechanic shop, on the same street where Mac had been hit. She shuddered as the mental image of him flying up and over the windshield replayed in her head like a horror movie.

The sharp wind assaulted them as soon as they stepped out of the warm interior of the car. It drove fallen leaves in eddies around their feet, and pushed its way under their coats and up their sleeves. Hurrying around the corner towards the mechanic shop, Stella and Danny looked at each other and smiled. This had to be the one.

"Can I help you?" asked the young man at the front counter.

Stella strode towards the desk, hand resting lightly on her badge. "Actually, yes. We were wondering if a black 2010 Nissan Armada had come in sometime over the last week. It would have needed a new windshield, headlights, and dents fixed."

"That's confidential information," he replied, accent thickening just a little bit.

"Not anymore." Danny flashed his badge and edged the other man out from behind the desk. He quickly pulled the records of repairs up on the computer screen, eyes flickering quickly over the neatly organized lines of text. "Stella, I got something!"

"That's funny, a 2010 Nissan Armada came in here three days ago, needing a new windshield, new headlights, and some repainting, as well as a dent fixed on the hood," Stella remarked, voice dangerously low. "It would be a good idea to tell me who's car that is, and where we can find him."

"Got that too. Armando Reyes," Danny replied, shutting down the computer. "Got an address here." He flipped open his phone and immediately dialed Flack, tapping his foot impatiently against the floor while it rang.

"Can we find Reyes here?" asked Stella, leaning a little too close to the young man for comfort.

"H-he's not here," the man replied, clearly unnerved by the police.

"Then you won't mind if I check out back." With a grim smile, she lifted the hem of her coat just slightly, as her fingers clenched against her Glock, and she burst through the doors like a furious hurricane. "Everybody freeze! NYPD! Is Armando Reyes here?"

There was a rustle and a commotion as a man a few meters away took flight, turning and running.

Stella pushed the two men on either side of her out of the way, and took off after the fugitive. Dodging stray puddles of grease, she reached out, fingers brushing the rough material of his jacket. He twisted for the garage door, and there was a metallic groaning as the door began to close. Thrown off, he stopped for just a second, enough for Stella to grab a fistful of his jacket and pull back on it. Furiously, she slammed him up against the wall, handcuffing him deftly. "Armando Reyes, you're under arrest for attempted murder and vehicular injury of Mac Taylor," she growled, giving him a final shake, and pulling him upright.

There was a small, vindictive smile playing around her lips as Danny escorted him to the car, pushing him into the patrol car. He shut the car door, and stepped back. The patrol car glided away from the curb, and Armando Reyes turned around to sneer at the two detectives.

* * *

"Hi." She said it softly, lingering in the doorway just in case he wanted her to leave.

"Come on in," he said, lifting a hand and motioning her over stiffly. "I'm sorry I was so short with you yesterday."

"Mac, it's okay. I can't even imagine how that must have felt, finding out about Claire," she replied, sitting in the chair that had become hers over the last week. "So, has anybody else come to visit you?"

"Yeah." His face brightened a few degrees. "Flack came in earlier, said he had good news but didn't want to ruin the surprise. Are you going to keep me waiting?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Stella allowed herself a grin as she unbuttoned her coat, and draped it over the back of the chair beside her. "Danny and I arrested the guy who hit you. With the eyewitnesses and evidence, I have no doubt it'll go to trial."

"You mean he's going away?" asked Mac, giving her a rare smile.

"I'll bet on it. We still haven't caught the guy you were chasing when you got hit, but we do know he hasn't left the country," Stella replied, stripping off her gloves and tucking them in her jacket pocket.

"Can you continue where we left off yesterday?" he asked quietly, expression sobering.

"Are you sure?" she responded, unwinding the scarf from around her neck and folding it neatly over her jacket.

"I can handle it, if that's what you're implying." He squared his shoulders, barely grimacing at all at the strain of the movement. His body no longer felt like he had been soundly beaten, although he still wasn't allowed to move much.

"Alright," Stella said, trying to figure out where exactly to start with the rest of Mac's story. After Claire, she felt a little stuck. "We've been working together as a team for eight years. Flack and Danny joined the team a couple of years ago, and Lindsay joined last year. Angell is in and out, but she's been working with us for about six months."

"So that's our team?" he asked, a faint smile on his lips. "I guess I'll have to get to know them again."

"Maybe talking to them will help you remember," Stella prompted gently, folding her hands in her lap.

Mac blew out a sigh. "Stella, it's been a week. I still don't remember anything. It's like my mind's a slate that's been wiped clean." He brought his fist down angrily on the bed, fingers clenched.

"That doesn't mean you won't. Dr. Robins said it might take weeks or even months before fragments start to come back," she said, calmly.

"But what if I don't? What if I never get anything back?" His eyes widened with horror at the possibility. The thought of losing his past for the second time ripped a jagged hole through his heart.

"Then I guess we'll just have to make new memories."


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n: **I'm so sorry that I took forever to update! I've been pretty busy with university, and I've been chipping away at this chapter for a while. I should have more regular updates in the future. Thanks also to my reviewers: Ditte3, Danzjaron, Craftygirl11, and tlh45, and everybody who read/faved/alerted.

* * *

**chapter four**

"Boom!" yelled Danny triumphantly. Everybody in the lab looked up, startled.

"Danny, you made me drop my fiber," Lindsay complained, bending her head and baring her tweezers as she searched for the synthetic fiber she'd dropped in surprise.

"What's up?" inquired Stella, looking up from the evidence she was going over for the hundredth time. They could really, really, use a break in the case, because from what she'd gotten from Armando Reyes, the only thing he was involved in was the hit and run on Mac. There was no evidence to suggest that he had anything to do with the murder, and Stella's gut instinct told her that Armando was just trying to give his friend an escape route.

"I got a hit on Robbie Cortland's credit card," Danny said, spinning his chair around to grin at Stella.

"Where?"

"Liquor store," Danny replied, scribbling the address on a post-it note and handing it to her.

"Well, there's no accounting for taste," put in Flack cheerfully from across the room. He stood up, whipped out his cell, and leaned over Danny's shoulder as he phoned the store. "Detective Don Flack, NYPD. A suspect in a murder just left your store. He bought a six-pack of Bud Light and a bottle of Smirnoff ice."

"There really is no accounting for taste," Stella muttered to Danny, picking her coat off the hanger and sliding it over her shoulders.

"Great, yeah, we'll be there soon." Flack hung up the phone, and turned to Stella. "Let's go arrest this guy."

"Count me in," the female detective said, adjusting the belt of her trench coat.

* * *

Harriet Grant was having an average day. Seeing as she was working at a rather sketchy liquor store at age 20, she'd already carded about seven obviously underage kids, and been hit on by fifteen significantly older men, things were going pretty well.

She had just checked out a man in his mid-twenties, and she was absently watching the door slam behind him, when her manager emerged from his office and headed straight for her. She swallowed and thrust her shoulders back, turning away from the register. "What's up, George?"

"The man you just checked out is a murder suspect. Can you get him back in here and keep him here until the police arrive?" he asked, putting his hands in his pockets nervously.

"Why can't you do it?" demanded Harriet, eyes widening at 'murder suspect.'

George put his hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath. "Because, Harry, if he sees a manager, he'll run. If he sees the young cashier, he's less likely to get suspicious," he explained slowly, as though speaking to a small child.

Harry blew out a breath through her thick bangs. Much as she hated him, he had a point. And he paid her. "Fine. What do I say?"

"I don't know, make something up! Just go!" he snapped, giving her a little push.

She wanted to be a journalist, damn it, not an actress. Frustrated, she squared her shoulders and drew on her Improv Club experience back in high school. Ripping her copy of his receipt from the machine, she rushed out into the street.

It didn't take her more than a few seconds to spot him. He was casually slouching away, red hoodie standing out.

"Sir, I'm so sorry, but I forgot to give you your receipt," she said apologetically, waving the yellow slip under his nose.

"It's right here." He frowned, and showed her his receipt. "It's got my name on it."

"I know, but that's my copy," she said. "If you could just come back inside with me, we'll switch and I'll make a record of it. I'll have to print you a new one."

The furrow between his brows deepened, and Harry swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry, I forgot again," she said, studying the toes of her worn-out Converse.

"Maybe you should pay more attention the next time. I don't have time for this!" he snapped, and she flinched at the sudden outburst of anger.

"Look, I'm really sorry, okay?" Harry drew in a shaky breath and let her eyes well with tears, not caring that she was making a scene on a crowded street in New York. "My manager says that if I forget one more time I'll lose my job, and I'm just a broke student from Indiana. I really need this job in order to stay here. Can you just come inside with me and we'll switch receipts?"  
He took in the tears in her eyes with obvious horror, and she inwardly smiled. He had fallen for it. "Yeah, yeah, sure thing," he said, more softly, and shuffled back into the store after her.

She caught George's eye and gave him a discreet thumbs up, as she led him over to her register, which happened to be the farthest from the door. She took his bag and re-scanned the items, refunded them, and then scanned them again, taking her time.

He was tapping his foot, impatiently waiting for her to finish so he could disappear out the door and be swept up into the crowd of anonymity outside. Every minute that passed made his heartbeat speed up and his skin dew with sweat a little more. Suspicion had bloomed in the pit of stomach, and he was anxious to be gone.

Harry was just moving his purchases into his bag when the door blew open and three police officers burst into the building, guns drawn. Instinctively, she flattened herself up against the cash and slowly slid to the floor, hands up.

"Shit." He swore, flinging his bottle of vodka across the room, and Don ducked as it shattered to his left, soaking his coat with alcohol.

Stella was on him like a tiger on a mouse. She dug her fingernails into his back as she hauled him to his feet, snapping the handcuffs on his wrists. "Robbie Cortland, you're under arrest," she breathed in his ears, before marching him out the door to the waiting police car.

"Are you the one responsible for keeping him here?" Flack was asking George, and Harry saw him moving to nod. Bullshit.

"Uh, no, actually, that would be me," she interjected quickly, jumping up from her position on the floor to move over to the detective.

"Well, you did a great job, Miss-" Flack said honestly, impressed with the young woman's ability to keep Cortland distracted long enough for the police to catch him.

"Grant. Harry Grant. And thanks," Harry said warmly, reaching out to shake his hand firmly.

"NYPD appreciates it," Flack replied, smiling at the young girl, with her artfully drawn eyeliner and red lipstick.

"Anytime I can help catch criminals," Harry replied with a smirk, closing her cash register.

* * *

Sunshine poured in through the starched hospital curtains, and Mac rolled over, eyes fluttering open in the warm light. His muscles only ached mildly now, and he flexed his arms experimentally, wishing he could stretch out his muscles. His shoulders were stiff, and his joints protested the movement loudly.

Setting his teeth, he made up his mind. He was going to be sitting up when Stella came to visit later.

With an almighty effort, he braced his hands on the rails of his bed, and pulled himself upright.

Every muscle screamed at the sudden movement. The bruises on his chest ached fiercely, setting his torso on fire.

Once upright, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The tiles were icy against the soles of his bare feet, and his toes curled in response.

Fighting the initial rush of dizziness, he stood warily, one hand on his desk. He slowly made his way over to his suitcase, stooped like an old man.

His bruised knees hurt as they pressed against the hard tiles. He rooted through his suitcase for an acceptable shirt, one that wasn't too fancy. Eventually, he settled on a navy blue button-down, pulling it from the pile of shirts Stella had folded so neatly.

He found a pair of socks, and pulled them on quickly. The tiles were freezing on his feet, and the thick machine-knit cotton was a welcome shield. He continued going through his suitcase, finding a pair of jeans that Stella had undoubtedly dug from some far recess of his dresser, and set about the task of dressing.

Mac furtively checked the door to make sure no nurses or doctors were around to sent him back to bed. His ribs ached as his fingers fumbled at the ties of his johnny gown. He pulled at them, fingers thick, until they came untied, and he grabbed to keep the flimsy garment from completely exposing all of him to New York City.

His cheeks coloured with shame as he shuffled to the bed, sitting his bare bottom on it as he wiggled into the clean pair of underwear, and shrugged painfully into his shirt.

His shoulders felt tight as he tried to pull the shirt around his front, and he struggled with the tiny pearlescent buttons. When had it ever seemed like a good idea to buy shirts with buttons that small? He laboured to button all of them, and admitted defeat at the second from top button. Sighing, he reached for his pants, and stepped into them. It hurt to pull them up around his hips, and the button didn't seem to want to go into the buttonhole.

He flopped back on his bed slowly, entire body exhausted from the sheer effort of putting on clothes. Despite the fact that every fiber of his body was on fire, he felt an immense sense of relief flow over him, like a gentle river. He had remembered how to get dressed, without someone helping him like a child! He chose to ignore his near-flashing of some business towers, focusing instead on how he'd just instinctively known what to do. That felt good. It gave him hope.

He was sitting on his bed doing a Sudoku when Stella blew into the room like a sandalwood-scented hurricane, curls bouncing, and trenchcoat blown open.

"We caught him!" she exclaimed, settling herself on the bed next to him, and gently pulling his Sudoku out of his hands and closing it pointedly.

"Who?" Mac asked, feeling vaguely bewildered.

"Robbie Cortland. The guy who you were chasing when Armando Reyes hit you," she replied, slipping out of her trenchcoat and draping it over the nearest chair.

"Did he do it?" Mac asked again, eyes never leaving her face.

"No, he didn't," she said, shaking her head so that her curls flew. "But he knows who did, and he was there, but as we suspected, he didn't actually commit the murder."

"What's going to happen to him?"

"He's going away for a bit. Accessory to murder, obstruction of justice, stuff like that," Stella said, smiling one of the first genuine smiles Mac had seen from her in a while. Her white teeth showed, and a memory tugged at the back of his consciousness…

_ The first time he'd seen that real, happy Stella-smile had been magical._

_ Their first case together had been closed mere hours ago, and the two detectives were slogging through an endless pile of post-case paperwork. Stella had taken on her share uncomplainingly, even though it was past ten o'clock._

_ Mac capped his pen and put it down, slipping the last of his forms into the appropriate folder, and moving it to his out box, to be submitted first thing tomorrow. He stood and stretched, looking out the window._

_ It was raining heavily, and the weak orange light of the streetlight just outside his window was wan and drowned in it. It was just after midnight, and aside from the watery halo of the streetlight, the darkness was inky and complete. He just wanted to stay warm and dry in his small office forever._

_ Shrugging into his trench coat, he grabbed his umbrella and switched off the lights. He put his hands in his pockets and made his way down the hall to the elevator, passing rows on rows of empty, darkened offices. Only one light remained on, the fluorescent lights glowing like a beacon in the rainy night. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he checked his watch, and rapped lightly on the door._

_ Through the glass panels, he saw her head rise from the report on her desk, and she called out, "Come in."_

_ "How are you doing?" he asked, geniunely concerned. If he was exhausted, he could only imagine how she felt. The eyes she fixed on his face were enough of an answer. Her green gaze was bleary, but determined. She looked ready to pass out, and the pen trembled in her fingers, but she raised her chin and faced her fatigue head on. He caught flashes of the incorrigible spirit that had prompted him to insist on picking her from the batch of rookies eager to join his team._

_ "I'm a little tired," she admitted, running a hand through her curls, and signing her name on the blank line at the bottom of the form. "I'm glad you're here, actually. Can you be my witness?" Without waiting for an answer, she held the pen in his direction._

_ "Of course," he said, adding his name next to hers._

_ "Well, that's one down, three more to go," she said, mustering some small semblance of cheer at the thought of another few hours here. "I'm making progress, here."_

_ "I can see you are." He pulled the pen gently from her hands and put it in her wire mesh cup, and closed her folder of forms and incident reports, pushing it to the side of her desk. "Why don't we call it a night?"_

_ "But Mac, I'm not done yet," she protested, biting her lip._

_ "You've done well for today. You can finish tomorrow," he replied, eyeing the stack of completed paperwork with appraisal. He handed her her jacket and scarf, and stared her down._

_ She quailed under his unflinching blue gaze, shoulders crumpling inwards. She buried her face in her hands, letting her eyes close for a few precious seconds. "I'm so tired, Mac."_

_ "I know. Why don't we get some food, and I'll drive you home?" he offered, feeling sorry for his rookie. She was obviously hanging by a thread, and he felt a little guilty that he hadn't noticed a few hours earlier and sent her home for some rest. Adding to his guilt was the fact that he'd completely forgotten to give her a break for supper, and she hadn't eaten in almost twelve hours. She must be starving._

_ "Okay." Accepting her rain jacket, she let him help her into it, stumbling over her chair slightly as she pushed it back. Snatching her keys from her desk, she flicked the lights and locked the door behind her, following him blindly down into the elevator and out of the deserted building._

_ She leaned against streetlight as he unlocked his car and got in slowly, her entire body stiff and sore from sitting hunched over for so long. She dozed off on the way to the coffee shop, and he had to gently push her shoulder to rouse her._

_ She shook herself, eyes opening reluctantly, and then shot upright, shoulders squared. "I'm awake!"_

_ "It's okay, Stella. You're off the clock," he replied, a smile emerging onto his face, and fading quickly as he stepped outside into the rain._

_ The coffee shop was small, dimly lit, and practically empty. Mac led Stella to a booth in the back, where she immediately and gratefully dropped into the padded seat, leaning back against the plush material._

_ "What do you want?" he asked as he unbuttoned his trench coat and prepared to go order for the two of them._

_ "Um…" Stella drew out the word as she considered it. She knew coffee was a bad idea this late at night, and she debated just giving in to her caffeine craving as she pulled out her wallet. "You know what? I could really go for a hot chocolate with whipped cream, and a cup of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich." She fumbled with her wallet, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, sliding it across the table to him._

_ He took it, and she vaguely watched him leave her field of vision to go order for them. He returned five minutes later carrying his plate, with one of the baristas carrying hers._

_ "Thanks," she smiled, as the plate was set in front of her. She waited until Mac had settled himself before taking a mouthful of soup, letting the creamy warmth soothe her._

_ He waited until he'd had about half his glass of water before looking up. It took her a few minutes to realize that his eyes were on her._

_ "You did a really good job on this case, Stella," he said honestly. He didn't give compliments lightly, but he gave them when they were well-deserved, and she had certainly worked hard. In fact, she'd blown his expectations out of the water. "I was impressed."_

_ She smiled. It started out small, but grew in size and warmth, until she was showing almost all of her perfect, pearly teeth. Her tired eyes lit up, and he was momentarily distracted by the luminous expression on her face. "Thank you so much, Mac. It means a lot coming from you," she said, eyes still aglow._

_ It wasn't until he was lying in bed that he realized how much he hoped to see that smile again._

"What's going on, Mac? You just zoned out."

Stella's voice tugged him back, and he looked up, a small grin tugging on the edges of his lips.

"I think I just remembered something," he said softly, looking at his fingertips. It felt so vivid, so real. He hoped desperately that it wasn't just a figment of his imagination.

"What did you remember?" she asked, eyes curious, as she leaned closer to him.

"It was just after our first case together. I felt guilty for forgetting to let you eat after we got the case, so I took you out to a coffee shop for some food. You were so tired, you were practically comatose," he said, chuckling lightly at the image of her eyes, bleary and half-closed. "I told you that you'd done a great job with the case, and you smiled."

"I remember that!" Stella said, laughing. "I fell asleep in the car on the way to the café, and then I barely made it through my hot chocolate. You drove me home because you didn't trust me to make it on the subway. But seriously, I was so green and new and confused about everything, hearing you tell me I did a great job just made my week."

"Glad I could help," he replied drily. "I guess I should tell you now that you exceeded my expectations. I didn't want to lay it on too thick, but I _was_ really impressed."

"You never lay it on too thick, Mac," Stella retorted, teasingly. "Have you heard from the doctors about when you can leave?"

He bit his lip for a few seconds. "They said within the next few days. Everything's healed up well, but they're just worried about my memory. They don't think I should be living on my own."

"They're probably right…" Stella trailed off, an idea tugging at the back of her mind. She could offer to have him stay with her, but would that be biting off more than she could chew? She cared deeply for Mac, and didn't want to see him alone, or even worse, stuck in the hospital and going crazy from boredom. "You could come live with me for a bit."

It was out before she could even consider stopping it, and she didn't even want to take it back.

"Stella, really? I don't want to impose," he insisted, blue eyes wide with surprise.

"You wouldn't be imposing," she replied calmly, checking her watch. "Where else were you planning on going?"

"I wasn't."

His voice was hard and bitter, hitting her like a wrecking ball. The pieces of her heart which had slowly begun to glue themselves back together shattered back into brittle shards. She caught her breath, realizing that even without his memory, Mac was still Mac. His pride was keeping him from asking for help, and she hoped he would accept her lifeline. She had absolutely no idea what she was getting herself into, but the impulsive voice inside her head told her that it didn't matter. She cared so much about him, all she wanted was to see him recovering. She ached to see him recovering, and if he could do that in a familiar home, then she would do whatever it took to make sure that it happened. "Mac…"

"I really don't want to impose," he insisted, examining his palms studiously. "I mean, think about this, Stella. I don't remember anything, I don't even think I can write or recognize big words. I'm like a five year old trapped in a – a," he faltered, rubbing his temples in some faint hope that it would help him remember. His pale cheeks coloured with shame, and he ducked his head even lower. "How old am I?"

"You're 48," supplied Stella, brow creasing in concern. "It's okay, Mac. These things will come back. It just takes time."

"You and my doctors both say that, but it feels like I'll always feel this way," he replied, barely able to meet her eyes.

She reached out suddenly, and gripped his shoulders firmly. "Mac, you just remembered something. That's amazing! It's okay that you don't everything yet. We're all here to help with that."

"I guess you're right," he admitted, rewarding her with a small smile.

"Now, are you going to accept my offer, or do you want to be bros with Don until you recover?" she prompted, giving him a luminous grin.

"You know I'd rather live with you for a bit, no offense to Don," he replied, sitting up a little straighter. "When do I get out of here?"

"I'll see what I can do about tomorrow," Stella said, biting her lip. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

The real question was if she was ready for this.

* * *

If you liked this update, please review! It's really encouraging and my reviews have dropped over the last few chapters, which is a little discouraging.


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: **I am so, so sorry about the long wait since I last updated! I promise I won't keep you guys waiting for as long again, if I can help it. I got really sick for two months in October, and then I had roommate problems, so I moved. Then I had finals. Once I got home, I was trying to finish my Christmas-themed stories, so that kind of sucked up my muse for this. I'm fine now, and I'm beginning to get my inspiration back.

The response to the last chapter was fantastic! Thank you all so much for your kind words! It was so encouraging, especially because I was going through a rough time. Please tell me how you liked this chapter, because it really makes a huge difference to how quickly I update.

* * *

**chapter five**

Mac woke up the next morning feeling better than he had in a long time, or at least since he could remember. He felt well-rested, and the soreness had receded to a mild ache. A small smile on his face, he rolled over and faced the large window, letting the warm October sunlight wash over his face. Today was the day he was leaving.

The clock on his bedside caught his attention briefly; the red numbers glowing 7:34. He sat upright, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, and stretched, working the tension out of his shoulders and chest.

Padding over to his suitcase, he selected one of the five blue shirts Stella had packed for him, a soft sapphire blue button-down. He found the least wrinkled of his pants, and slid into them. He considered wearing a tie, and then vetoed that idea, opting for his trench coat instead.

Once dressed, he began to pack up the last of his toiletries, arranging them neatly on top of his clothes in his suitcase. Once his suitcase was standing by the door, he settled himself in the chair next to the window. The view was straight down to the busy street, and he contented himself with watching the brightly coloured cars speed by.

"You're ready to go early."

He spun around, smiling at the sound of her voice. The familiar smell of her sandalwood perfume reached him a few seconds later, and he tried not to breathe it in too obviously. "I've been ready to go for days," he replied casually, standing slowly and reaching for his suitcase.

Her fingers were warm and he felt the sting of a slight swat across the back of his hand as she reached over him and picked up his suitcase.

"I'm perfectly capable of handling my own suitcase, Stella," he said, raising an eyebrow and giving her just a hint of that startlingly familiar Mac Taylor glare.

The expression on his face made her forget that he wasn't the Mac she knew and loved, if only for a split second. Regaining her composure, Stella ignored him and pulled the suitcase out of his reach. "Broken ribs, Mac," she reminded him gently. "The doctors said nothing strenuous for the next six weeks."

"How long is that?" He frowned, staring at his slightly scuffed shoes.

The transition from old-Mac to new-Mac never failed to give her whiplash, and she was thrown momentarily. "Oh Mac," she sighed quietly, as she stopped them by the nurse's station. "It's going to be a while."

"Are you ready to be discharged, Mr. Taylor?" asked a familiar deep voice, and Mac looked up to see his doctor striding into the room, a stethoscope draped around his neck. His hands were deep in the pockets of his monogrammed white lab coat, and he had a clipboard tucked under one arm. "I have your discharge papers right here."

"I'm ready to go," Mac said, ignoring the small pang of panic in his chest at the thought of leaving the hospital. He had hated every minute of it, especially when he was alone, but it was safe. He didn't have to know everything about himself. He wasn't sure he was ready for the real world.

"Well, then," Stella said from behind him, clearing her throat pointedly. She cast the clipboard a look, and Dr. McLauchlan passed it to Mac. She watched him scan it, pen hovering between his index finger and thumb, and sign on the dotted line.

"Well, Mr. Taylor, you're good to go. Stay safe, and the best of luck with your recovery," said the doctor, clapping Mac on the shoulder on his way out.

"Thanks," Mac mumbled at his retreating figure, and followed Stella past the nurse's station and out of the hospital.

He emerged into the light for the first time in two weeks, reveling at the feeling of the wind biting into his cheeks and exposed skin. Even though the sharp sting was new to him, it felt familiar in a way, as though he'd experienced it many times before.

Since he'd been in the hospital, the warm, mellow fall had run seamlessly into November, and the sun had been replaced with cloud-diffused light and a constant icy breeze. The air no longer smelled like stale gasoline fumes, but carried just a trace of freshness.

Stella led the way to her car, confidently dragging his suitcase while simultaneously digging in her purse for her keys. Finding them, she unlocked the car door and opened the trunk, throwing his stuff easily in the trunk. She slid next to him in the driver's seat, and buckled herself in before she turned and spoke. "Do you want to go back to my place to drop off your stuff and then get breakfast?" she asked.

"Sure," he replied absently, too busy taking in his surroundings. The streets were busy, and shiny cars in every colour flew by. Tall buildings soared on either side of him, and the persistent wind drove dried leaves in eddies around the sidewalk.

Stella started the engine, and guided the car into the endless stream of New York traffic, looking around instinctively for pedestrians and jaywalkers, while Mac stared intensely out the window, determined not to let a single detail of the beautiful city, no matter how minute, slip past him.

They were sitting in silence at a red light when Mac's stomach made an unfamiliar noise, accompanied by an uncomfortable sensation of tugging. Confused, he looked at his stomach, frowning at it. "What was that?" he asked, bemused.

His expression was so genuinely concerned that Stella burst out laughing before she could stop herself. Her teeth gleamed, and she quickly covered her giggles behind a gloved palm. "Oh, Mac, you're hungry. Let's get breakfast first. I know where we can go," she suggested, pulling the car suddenly off to the left, and changing course.

"Yeah, I guess I am," he agreed, sticking his hands back in his coat pockets and resuming staring out the window.

"I don't blame you," Stella said, as she glared at the line of cars outside the coffee shop, circling the block and eventually finding a space three blocks down. Reluctantly, she tightened her scarf around her neck and pulled on her gloves, bracing herself for the wind as she opened her door and stepped outside. It teased her curls and played with the hem of her coat, which she pulled down over her hips.

She pushed open the door of the coffee shop, and was immediately greeted by a warm blast of rich, espresso-scented air. A buzz of chatter filled the air, and Mac paused for a second, taking it all in. His head was tilted slightly to one side, and his brows were knitted. Stella's first impression was of a lost puppy.

"Come on, Mac," she said, pulling him gently towards the counter, and stepping back to read the menu. "What do you feel like? It's on me."

He scanned the blackboard, squinting. "Um, I think I liked the bagel and smoked salmon. What about coffee? What did I like?"

"Black," Stella answered immediately. "Black, and in mass quantities. If you're sure you want that bagel, I'll go order for us. Why don't you find us a seat somewhere?"

He pivoted, surveying the place, while she stepped up to the counter and placed their orders. It wasn't ridiculously crowded, and so managed to find them a booth in the back, next to a window.

Stella slid into his periphery balancing her plate and cappuccino, followed by the barista with his food. Thanking the woman, she eased herself into the seat across from him, smiling. "Enjoy," she said, simply, wrapping her fingers around her cup and savouring the comforting warmth and scent of her coffee before taking a sip.

Mac fumbled with his knife and fork, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy. Feeling a rush of heat to his face and ears, he ducked his head and grasped the utensils, spearing a piece of melon from his fruit salad and putting it carefully into his mouth.

"A spoon might be easier," Stella suggested mildly, looking up from her breakfast wrap, and trying to conceal her amusement.

"Right. I knew that." Still slightly flushed, Mac picked up his spoon and slid it beneath a chunk of strawberry.

"Hey, it's okay. These things will come back," she said, her gaze softening as she looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Dr. MacLauchlan told me some parts might never come back," Mac said, reaching for his bagel.

"So much has already come back. You're more like the Mac I knew every day," Stella said soothingly, taking a sip of her coffee.

"But I'll never go back to being the way I was," he said, tone laced with an almost childlike wistfulness.

"Mac, you were in an a severe accident. Nobody expects you to come out of that unscathed," Stella replied, wishing she could reach out and smooth away the frown lines puckering his pale forehead. She resisted the urge, and settled for gently putting her hand over his. He looked up at the touch, startled, but didn't pull away.

"We are all so incredibly grateful that you're still here with us," she continued earnestly, looking deeply into his blue eyes. "The entire team – we're all here for you."

"I know that." He looked up, a small smile curving his lips. "I can't wait to see them again. Danny and I are going to have coffee sometime."

"That's great. And once we close our current case, you can come in with me," Stella offered, draining the last of her coffee cup and getting to work on finishing her wrap.

"How's your case going, anyway?" asked Mac, looking up from his bagel. He was clumsily maneuvering it into his mouth, chewing slowly. He was still awkward with handheld food, since hospital fare mostly consisted of mushy vegetables and dry, overcooked meat, with the inevitable addition of some kind of pudding or Jello. He'd been able to manage with a fork or spoon for the most part, and eating things like bagels felt foreign.

"It's… going," Stella replied, even though they were heading steadily towards an impasse.

"No, it's not," he said, with a smug smile, clearly proud of himself for catching her in a lie.

"Yeah, it's not. The body was found in a pond after almost two weeks. Most of the forensic evidence is destroyed, and we're having a tough time piecing it back together. We have suspects, but none of them have a really strong motive," she sighed. "Most of them have solid alibis, and with so little evidence…" She shrugged and stared into the dregs remaining in her coffee cup.

"Sounds tough," Mac said, popping the last of his bagel into his mouth. "I know you'll crack it eventually."

"I hope so," she said fervently. "I hate cold cases. They're so depressing. And the families get no closure."

"That must be rough," he said, taking a swig of his coffee. The liquid sat bitterly on his tongue, but he enjoyed the deep, rich flavour.

"It is," Stella said, "because there's no justice." She pushed her plate back slightly.

Mac bit his lip, and said nothing. There was a brief flicker of pain as he remembered that Claire's body had never been found. He exhaled hard, feeling the pit of his stomach plunge as he realized that he could sympathize.

Stella watched him under her eyelashes, and checked her watch. Her eyes widened as she scanned the analogue's face. "Crap, I was supposed to be in half an hour ago! Are you done?"

"Yeah," Mac said, standing up and slipping his coat on. He pulled his gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on, preparing for the chill outside.

Stella adjusted her scarf so it hugged her neck and closed the gap between her skin and the lapels of her wool coat. Gathering her bag, she followed Mac out into the street, and headed towards her car.

"Wait." Mac stopped dead in his tracks, staring hard at the alley between two buildings. Frowning, he stepped inside, inhaling the smell of stagnant air, dead leaves, and the faint metallic tang of the dumpsters.

"Mac?" Stella questioned, bending at the waist to peer inside the alley.

He turned around slowly, getting his bearings. The alley was dim, and piles of fallen leaves drifted against the walls. A few meters down, a set of stairs from a fire exit descended into the alley. "Was there a murder here?"

"Yeah." Stella rubbed her forehead with gloved fingers as she considered it. "Yeah, as a matter of fact there was. It must've been about six years ago. There was a girl shot and dumped here, just under the stairwell."

"I remember… she was blonde, petite. She was a waitress. She found out that her boss was keeping the place afloat through mafia connections. He killed her to keep her silent."

"That's right," Stella said softly, taking a few steps forward until the darkness enveloped her. She looked around the alley, taking in the shadows and the emergency stairwell. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the image of the girl lying on the asphalt in a pool of her own blood, printed on the inside of her eyelids. "We eventually caught him, but he had connections, and he walked free."

"That's not fair," Mac replied, running his hand along the damp concrete wall. He had swung back from cop to confused child, and Stella caught her breath at the trace of a whine in his tone.

"No, it's not. No justice," she agreed, discretely pushing up her sleeve to check her watch. "I wish we could have proved it."

"She was so young," he said wistfully. "Only 20. She had her whole life in front of her, and she lost it because she did the right thing."

"I know." Stella closed the gap between them with two long strides, and gently placed her gloved hand on her arm. "I'm going to be even later. We should get going."

"Yeah…" He gave the alley one last sweeping glance, and followed her back out into the street. The wind whipped at his face, stinging the tips of his ears with its brutal assault. Automatically, he turned up the collar of his coat and pulled at his scarf to cover the back of his neck. Pulling up his gloves, he followed Stella to her car.

"I'm going to drop you off at my apartment and then head in to the precinct, okay?" Stella said, as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, vibrating beneath them. "I'll get you settled and then head out. I've got a case."

"Sounds good," Mac replied, as he resumed staring out the window as if the city would vanish before he could memorize every detail. When Stella pulled up to her apartment building, he unfastened his seatbelt and followed her to the elevator.

"Here we are," Stella proclaimed a few minutes later, unlocking her door and pushing it open. "Welcome to your home for the next little while. The guest room is over here."

"Thanks, Stella," Mac said, reaching for his suitcase. Once again, Stella swatted his hand away, a little more forcefully than she had earlier.

"I said no touching!" she snapped, blocking him as she leaned across and grabbed the suitcase.

"Sorry." He backed away, and reluctantly let her take his suitcase to the spare room. Following her, he found himself in a light-filled room. It wasn't overly large, with a double bed dressed in blue clothes, a mirror, a dresser, and a desk that looked brand new.

Stella towed his suitcase over to the bed, and set it down. "Well, this is your space indefinitely. Welcome," she smiled, standing back and letting him take in the space.

"I'll get settled, then," Mac said, as he gingerly bent down and unzipped his suitcase. He flipped it open and began moving the neatly folded piles of clothes onto the bed.

"Sure. Make yourself at home. There's food in the fridge if you get hungry. I left instructions for how to use the stove and microwave, and my number's on the kitchen table," Stella said. "I have cookbooks in the kitchen if you're feeling creative, and I'll be home by 8." She ran her palms over the rough tweed of her pants, and exhaled. "I think that's everything."

"Alright," Mac said, as he emptied the last pairs of pants from his suitcase, and zipped it shut. He pushed it under the bed and straightened up. "I'll let you get to work. I'll try not to blow the place up."

"You do that." Stella chuckled, as she turned around. Her heels clicked against the hardwood as she headed towards the kitchen to grab her purse, which she'd dropped on her chair. "I'll see you later!"

The door shut behind her, and then locked, and Mac was left staring around her spacious living room. With a shrug, he decided to become better acquainted with his new home.

* * *

Stella did her best not to curse as she checked her watch for the tenth time since leaving her apartment. Construction had blocked off her normal route to the precinct, and she was even later than she'd anticipated. She hurried up the steps, breezing through security with a flash of her badge. Toes tapping anxiously against the carpeted elevator floor, she fidgeted as she waited for the doors to open.

There was a low hiss of escaping air, and she headed down to Flack's office. She'd called him on her way out of her apartment, and he'd said that he would be around, but that was half an hour ago. Crossing her fingers, she knocked on his door and stepped back.

"Come in," he called almost immediately, and she opened the door and entered his small workspace.

"Flack, I am so sorry I'm late. I got stuck in construction, and Mac and I stayed later at the café than we intended, and on the way back he remembered a crime scene," she explained in a rush, pausing for a beat to catch her breath.

"No worries. How's we doing?" Flack asked, pushing back his paperwork and giving her his full attention.

"He's okay, all things considering," she replied, pushing her fingers through her curls. "He just – he goes back and forth so quickly. One minute he'll be almost the old Mac and then he realizes that he's forgotten something. He's almost like a child when that happens. Like today at breakfast, he tried to eat his fruit cup with a fork."

"Can you blame him? He's been eating hospital food for the past week. That stuff is questionable," Flack said, trying to lighten the mood.

Stella allowed herself a smile, and bit her lip. "He usually forgets to use his knife, too. I mean, I know that stuff will come back over time, but it's like watching a kid."

"Hang in there, okay? It'll get better, I know it will," Flack told her, blue eyes warm and sympathetic. "You know you can call me if you need anything, right? Anything at all? We're all here for you. We know this isn't easy."

"Thanks, Flack." Stella tilted her head back and blinked away the sudden, unbidden sting of tears. She knew he meant every word of it, and part of her wanted to reach out and hug him, but she'd had a lot of that since the accident. Besides, she had to be professional.

With a small smile, Flack put a hand gently on her arm. "Are you ready to get down to work? We really need you for this case. Lindsay's been analyzing diatoms, but we're kind of stuck. Why don't you come down to the lab and we can fill you in?" he suggested, scooping his case file off his desk.

"Sure," Stella said, following him out and down the hall to the lab, where Lindsay was peering curiously at a wet mount under a microscope.

"Hey guys, look who's back!" announced Flack, as he flung open the door.

"Stella!" Lindsay squealed, jumping back from the microscope. She rubbed her eyes for a few seconds, bringing the lab back into focus, before wrapping the taller woman in a hug. "It's so good to have you back! How's Mac?"

Stella was surprised to find herself hugging back, before the pulled apart. She was aware of all eyes on her, not just her team's. She cleared her throat awkwardly. "He's okay. I picked him up today from the hospital, and he's going to be living with me for a bit. He's settling in there now. He's doing a lot better."

"That's good news," put in Danny from the table next to Lindsay, where he was running over the victim's clothing with a black light, trying to find any residual blood stains. "Tell him we've got a coffee outing planned, whenever he's feeling up to it."

"Sure," Stella said, for the second time in five minutes. "I'll relay that when I get a chance. Now, how are you guys doing? I need to be briefed."

"Yeah, this case is a real mind screw," Danny said bitterly, gesturing for her to come closer. He ran his fingers through his short blond hair, making it stand up. "Nobody has a real motive that we've found, and the majority of the evidence is destroyed. Did I mention I hate cases involving water and long periods of time?"

"Me too," Lindsay chimed in. "I'm looking at the diatom concentrations and species. Some of them eat certain things, so maybe they'll help find some evidence."

"This is where I come in, don't I?" Stella could hardly suppress a smile as she passed behind Lindsay, glancing over the brunette's shoulder at her electron microscope and slides. "Fresh eyes."

"That's right," said Flack. "Maybe you can get more out of the suspects than we've managed."

"I'm on it," she replied, accepting his copy of the case file. "I've got some interrogating to do."

She took in a deep, re-invigorating breath as she headed down to the interrogation rooms. She was back, and she wouldn't have had it any other way.

\


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n: **I'm back, hopefully for a while! I've got a good plan for this going, and more free time this semester, so I should be updating more regularly. I apologize for the short chapter, but it's kind of a transition from the hospital to the real world. I promise things will get more interesting from here! Thank you so much to everybody who read and reviewed the last chapter; I really appreciate it! Please do take 30 seconds to drop me a review, because it does make me write faster, honestly. :)

* * *

**chapter six**

Stella sighed as she locked her car door, relief flowing over her in a gentle wave. She'd survived her first official day back, and now it was time to go and see how Mac was doing. She smiled to herself as she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed inside.

Bending at the waist, she peered underneath the door. No strip of light greeted her. The apartment was dark. One hand found her holster, while the other unlocked the door and eased it open. The TV was playing, sending light flickering against the walls. She put her bag gently on the floor, and tiptoed toward the main area, every nerve ending tingling and ready.

Instead of an intruder, she found Mac peacefully passed out on the couch. Since he was switched to Spike, Stella really couldn't blame him.

She took off her shoes, washed her hands, and stood in front of the open fridge, trying to figure out what to make for supper. Since she had gone grocery shopping only the night before, she had plenty of options. She knew what the old Mac would like, but she wasn't sure if his preferences were still the same. Chewing on her lower lip, she turned around, tempted to wake him up and ask him what he wanted. Craning her neck to see over the back of the sofa, she decided not to wake him up, mostly because he looked so serene. The wrinkles that had been almost permanently etched into his forehead were relaxed, and the dim light almost smoothed them over. He looked so much younger, almost youthful.

Sighing, Stella turned back to the fridge, and began pulling out the ingredients for a salad. She turned on the water to rinse the lettuce.

Mac stirred, the sound of flowing water rousing him from a deep sleep. Opening his eyes, he rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows. The apartment was dark, except for a glow of light coming from the kitchen. He had slept longer than he'd intended. He sat up slowly, stretching and rubbing his eyes. He guessed he'd been out for a few hours, since it had definitely been light out when he'd fallen asleep. "Stella?" he mumbled, sitting up fully, and staring over the back of the sofa at her unmistakable silhouette.

She turned away from the sink, a warm smile on her face. "Hey, you're awake. Did you have a good nap?"

"For being on a couch, it was pretty decent," he replied, getting up and padding gently into the kitchen. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Yeah, actually. What do you want for supper? I've got chicken, hamburger, pasta…" Stella trailed off, opening the fridge so he could take a look.

"As long as it's not hospital food, I'm not picky," Mac said, smiling back. "Whatever's easiest."

"Chicken it is." Stella reached into the freezer and pulled out a package of frozen chicken breasts. She quickly put them onto a plate and stuck them in the microwave to defrost. Reaching into one of the cupboards, she pulled down a container of herbs. "Can you grab me the lemon juice? It's on one of the shelves in the fridge."

"Sure," Mac said, searching for the bottle. He gently ran his fingers over the various bottles of condiments and seasonings, until he found the offending bottle. Straightening up, he handed her the bottle and headed over to the sink to wash his hands.

"What are you doing?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Helping," he replied, drying his hands on the hand towel, and heading over to the cutting board, which was covered in vegetables.

"Sure. Why don't you shred the lettuce and rinse the rest of the vegetables?" she said, pulling the chicken out of the microwave.

"You're not trusting me with a knife, are you?" he asked, trace amounts of humour in his voice, and began rolling up his shirtsleeves.

"Nope." Stella grinned, drizzling the thawed chicken breasts with lemon juice and sprinkling the herb mix over them, before sliding the pan into the oven and setting the timer.

"Can I peel the carrots, at least?"

She considered it for a few seconds, before tossing him the potato peeler. "I guess so. There are Band-Aids under the sink in the bathroom if you peel yourself."

"I think I'll manage," Mac replied, gripping reaching for the peeler's blade.

"Wrong side." Stella smirked, turning back to chopping the celery into neat U-shapes.

"Right," he replied, running the peeler firmly down the carrot. "I knew that."

She shook her head, and rolled her eyes, turning back to the cutting board with a smile on her face. "These things will come back. Besides, how often did you use a peeler as a bachelor, anyway?"

"Probably not that often," he admitted, a small grin tugging at his lips. He flicked a few slimy strands of carrot peel into the sink, and rinsed the peeled carrot before handing it over to Stella to chop.

"Why don't you set the table?" she suggested, tossing the salad. "The cutlery is in the top drawer, second to the right." She pointed the oversized wooden salad spoon in the general direction, and carried the heaping wooden bowl to the table.

"Sure." He gathered two knives, forks, and spoons, and set Stella's small table.

When she set the still-steaming chicken on the table, she had to smile. The knife and spoon had been reversed, but the fork was at least in the right place. She speared a piece of chicken, and put it on his proffered plate, motioning for him to help himself to salad while she served herself. "Enjoy," she said simply, picking up her knife and fork, and starting in on her chicken.

They spent the meal in companionable silence, in the dim light of her kitchen. Her wide windows looked out over the busy street, and every so often Mac's gaze would drift down to the cars whizzing by, far below their feet. They made streaks of colour and light in the semi-darkness. His gaze was occasionally drawn up to the bright lights on the skyscrapers around them. The city was so beautiful at night, and he couldn't seem to stop taking it all in.

Eventually, Stella finished her glass of wine and pushed back her chair. "I'll load the dishwasher, okay?" she said, picking up his plate and stacking it on top of hers. "Feel free to go and watch TV or something."

"You sure you won't need help?" he asked, blue eyes concerned and a little guilty. "I barely helped with supper at all."

"I'm good," Stella assured him, as she loaded their plates into the dishwasher and pressed the 'on' button. The machine vibrated as it roared to life, and she stepped back to look around the kitchen. Finding nothing that needed to be done, she turned back to Mac, who hadn't moved from his chair at the table. He was staring out the window again, fascinated by the traffic

"I'll be right back," she said, as he nodded absently. Padding into her bedroom, Stella emerged with a pencil and a pad of notepaper, and seated herself back at the table.

"What's that?" Mac asked, looking away from the street below reluctantly.

"I was thinking that we should make a list of places to go, places that might help you remember things. We're going to have to go back to your apartment to get stuff for a longer term," she said, writing 'Mac's List of Places to Go' neatly at the top of the page. "Why don't we start with that?"

"Sure," Mac said. "I want to go to the lab and see the team."

"Duly noted," Stella said, adding that to the list.

Ten minutes later, the list spanned half a page, and included items from 'walk in Central Park' to 'go to the jazz club,' and 'play the bass.'

With a small sigh, Stella mustered her courage. She didn't want to remind Mac of what he'd lost, but she knew that he'd have to face it eventually. He needed to see Claire's grave, and she felt that the 9/11 memorial would have some significance as well. "Have you thought about visiting Claire's grave?" she asked gently, green eyes flickering to his face.

"You said there was no body," he said, voice dull.

Stella could see the suppressed emotion in his eyes, and a sharp pang of guilt shot through her chest. "There isn't," she said softly, "but it might help. It might bring back some memories of your time together."

Slowly, Mac nodded. "Yeah," he replied, voice rough. "Add it to the list."

"I had another idea, too," she added, trying to gauge if she should continue. She knew that talking about Claire was hard for him, dealing with the fact that he'd once loved her and then lost her… twice. She could see the pain in the stiffness of his jaw, and in the furrow carved between his eyebrows when her name was mentioned.

"It's not a field trip, is it?" he asked, looking into her eyes. "More hard, cold reality."

Stella cleared her throat in an attempt to rid herself of the lump there, and bit her lip. "Yeah. There's a 9/11 memorial. If you want to, I can take you there sometime."

"Okay." He sounded hesitant. He didn't want to know where she'd died, to know where her body had once been, lying crushed under rubble and soot. Some small, stubborn part of him pushed him forward. Nobody had ever said this journey was going to be easy. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, and then stood up. "If that's all for now, I think I'm going to go to bed."

"Sure," Stella said, gaze softening as he straightened up. "Do you need any painkillers? For future reference, they're right by my vitamins."

"No, I'm alright," he replied, stretching stiff muscles. His chest hurt a little from sitting hunched over, and he worked absently at the knotted muscles over his bruised ribs. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Sounds good," Stella said, standing as well. She watched him shuffle almost to the guest bedroom before calling him back. "Hey Mac, do you want to come into the lab tomorrow?"

"That would be great," he said, expression brightening a little. "What time do I need to get up?"

The old Mac would have been up at 5:30, but Stella decided that he could use the sleep-in. It wasn't as though he could go for a run or exercise anyway, so she settled on 6:30 as an acceptable hour. "6:30 should be fine," she told him, gesturing vaguely to the guest bedroom, "there's an alarm clock in there that you can set."

"Sounds good." He nodded, and headed for the guest bedroom. He still moved slowly, rather like an old man. He paused in the doorway, silhouetted in the doorframe. "And Stella? Thanks. For everything."

"No problem, Mac," she replied, smiling to herself as she bent down to get the kettle and make herself a cup of tea, before she headed to bed as well.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n: **Thanks to everybody who read and reviewed the last chapter! Give me a four-hour bus ride, and the last part of this happens. I promise plenty of action in the next chapter, and as always, please do let me know what you think!

* * *

**chapter seven **

"So, are you looking forward to going back?" asked Stella, grinning at Mac over the rim of her coffee cup. This was the first time she'd actually sat down for breakfast in a long time. Usually her morning routine consisted of a rushed breakfast, with coffee to go. This morning, however, she had made bacon and eggs to go along with the coffee.

"I can't work, but I'm looking forward to seeing the team," Mac replied, carefully forking a generous helping of eggs and bacon into his mouth and chewing.

"It wouldn't kill you to actually enjoy your time off, you know," she pointed out, taking a sip of her coffee. "We could knock some items off the to-do list."

"We'll have to take a look at that again tonight," he said, eyes drifting over to the innocent-looking piece of paper pinned to the fridge. "Maybe this weekend?"

"I'd be up for a walk in Central Park," Stella replied, her green eyes brilliant. "It's been a while since I've been there just for fun. Usually, I'm there because they've found a body."

Her last statement was laced with grimness. She'd been called to crime scenes all over the city, from the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building to the MOMA and the Museum of Natural History. It was hard to visit some attractions without picturing the associated crime scenes as well, from the body crushed in the Egyptian exhibit, to the body at the top of the Empire State Building. Shaking that last image away, she gave him another small smile.

"I can manage that," he said, forking the last of his bacon and eggs into his mouth. Standing up, he carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it. "I'll be ready to go within 10 minutes."

"Sounds good." Stella loaded their plates into the dishwasher, and headed off to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Half an hour later, she was backing into the NYPD parking lot, next to Flack's car. The dark vehicle glinted in the sun, and a small smile played around her lips. At least Flack's car represented normalcy. Some things never changed. "Okay," she said, pursing her lips slightly. "We're here."

Mac opened his door slowly, and stepped out into the street. The building towered over him. He stood in its shadow, staring up at the storeys of identical square windows. He turned back to Stella for a brief moment, and found her just a few feet behind him.

She took a few steps forward until she was standing next to him. Reaching out, she quickly took his hand. He shifted, but didn't pull away.

"Are you ready?" Stella asked, turning towards Mac, eyes warm.

"I think so," he replied, drawing in a deep breath. The slight nip of frost in the air bit at his lungs, and the feeling was somehow calming.

She gently let go of his hand, giving it a small pat. She took one look at the building she saw everyday, and strode toward the door. Pulling it open, she held it for Mac, and followed him into the bustling lobby. He balked just inside the doorway, stopping dead in the middle of a sea of people. They flowed seamlessly around him and Stella, barely even taking time to spare the two a second glance.

"Hey," she said softly in his ear, palm cupping his elbow. "You alright?"

"Fine." He shook himself, and turned to her with hint of a smile.

"Okay, let's go up," she said, gesturing to the elevators. She had to jolt him into movement with a small tug, but he followed willingly.

Once the elevator doors slid closed, Stella tried to think of something to say to fill the silence. She and Mac had never had problems talking; words had always flowed easily between them, but that was before. Now, he was a shell of the man she'd once known. His intelligence was still intact, but his personality and memories were shattered. It would take a lot more than a freak accident to destroy Mac Taylor, but it seemed as though his accident had done just that.

Standing next to him with silence hanging over them like a pall, Stella could feel the full extent of the gap between them. It was as if they were on opposite sides of a fjord, each standing at the edge of a cliff. She wanted so desperately to reach out and close the space between them, but it was too wide, and if she reached out farther, she'd fall headfirst into the abyss. He was truly so damaged, and Stella felt a sudden stab of guilt run through her. What if he wasn't ready for this? What if she had forced this on him too early? Before she could hit the ground floor button and walk them out of here, the elevator dinged, and the doors glided open. It was the moment of truth. Stella pinched her eyes closed for a split second, and squared her shoulders. There was no going back, and she hoped Mac had it in him to handle his return to the precinct so early.

"Stella?" His voice came from far off, as if he was shouting from the cliff's edge. "We're here."

"Right." She turned to him, feigning a smile. She'd practiced it so much her muscles tautened easily, and she forced the corners of her eyes to crinkle. Faking it had become so easy over the past few weeks.

His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and his eyes burned into hers for a second. The familiar, soul-searching look almost threw her, but she forced herself to keep her smile in place, not to waver. She stepped over the threshold onto the 34th floor, and didn't look back.

Leading him down the now-familiar maze of corridors to his office, she paused outside the door, patting her pockets in order to find his key ring. She'd kind of adopted Mac's keys temporarily, since he had no idea what each one was for. Neither did she, but she held the set out to him anyway, hoping to see a spark of recognition flare behind his blue eyes.

Mac accepted the key ring, clearly unsure what to do with it. Hesitantly, he approached the door and started flicking through the keys. He hoped desperately that one would jump out at him, but they all looked the same. With a resigned sigh, he inserted the key currently in his fingers into the lock, and repeated the process.

"How's it going?" asked Stella from behind him, arms folded over her chest. There was a slight smile on her lips, and she wore a vaguely amused expression.

"Process of elimination," Mac replied drily, moving onto the next key. He turned it, and the lock clicked open. He pushed the door gently, and stepped inside his office. It was dark and smelled unused. The air was stagnant, stale. Automatically, he reached for the light switch, fingers scrabbling gently along the wall before flicking it on, bathing the small room in bright, fluorescent light. He moved slowly towards his desk, taking in the stack of paperwork. His fingers drifted across the manila folder of cold cases, and his eyes dimmed for a second.

"So, this is your office," Stella narrated, leaning in the doorframe, and trying her best to look casual.

"Yeah," Mac said softly, gingerly pulling out his chair and taking a seat. He reached for the case file next to his laptop, pulling it close and opening it slowly. Fingers trembling slightly, he scanned the top of the case file, eyes widening.

Stella watched, knowing exactly what was on the sheet he was reading.

"Robbie Cortland," he breathed, eyes moving rapidly down the page. He sighed and flipped to the next page. "And Armando Reyes. This was the last case I was working on before the accident."

"Yeah," Stella said, "it was. And now you can move that folder to the closed cases."

"Where's that?" he asked, turning around in his chair and looking around the room.

"Right over there," she said, stepping over the threshold and pointing to a box on the shelves behind him. "It's the closest one to you."

Mac nodded, standing up and stretching. He trailed his fingers slowly along the label on each box before finding the right one. He was about to reach for it when Stella swatted his hand for about the fifth time since he'd been discharged.

"Hey, no lifting. Doctor's orders." She moved quickly across the room, intercepting him before he could even consider a response.

"Right." He cleared his throat and stepped back, allowing her to carry the full box over to his desk and set it down. He slid the top off, and found himself staring at an almost empty box. The folders leaned against each other, and he fingered them gently, reading the names and scanning the first few pages of the case reports. After a few minutes of pensive reading, he looked up, brow furrowed. "I don't remember any of these. Not a single one."

"It's okay," Stella said soothingly, coming up behind him, and putting a gentle hand on his arm. "It'll come back. And even if it doesn't, you still solved the cases. You saved lives, gave people closure. Don't ever think that's not important."

"I just wish I could remember some of it," he replied, voice low and rough.

"Maybe it's better not to remember all of the crime scenes. God knows I'd like to forget some of them," Stella said, her voice rising in a dry laugh at the end of her statement. Even when she closed her eyes, she still saw bodies. She saw bloodstains in the legs of red wine running down the inside of her glass. She heard gunshots in every car backfire. Even when she retired or quit, she'd never be able to forget the absolute cold panic that comes with staring down the barrel of a gun, or worse, the feeling of cool steel pressed tightly against her skin.

"At least you still remember enough to do your job," he muttered bitterly, slapping the lid on the box.

"You'll be back," she said, sounding sure of herself. "You know your chances of recovery after time are good."

"What i-" he began, before she leaned across him and pushed his chest a little harder than he intended. Before he could react, she had him backed up against the table and was staring directly into his eyes. It was a little – no, a lot – intimidating, and in spite of himself, he swallowed nervously.

"I'm so tired of the what ifs, Mac Taylor," she said, her voice laced with a dangerous tone. "You only get one chance to live, and don't throw it all away just because you've lost some memories. They will come back. I'll make sure of it."

He nodded, unsure of what else to do in the circumstances. It wasn't often Stella got angry, but he'd seen her pushed to her limit and it wasn't pretty. He didn't want to be the target, either. "Right. I'm sorry." He looked up, unsure of what to do. Did he hug her? Take her hand? Pat her arm? Did she even want to be touched by him right now? He breathed out deeply, nostrils flaring.

"Now that we have that out of the way, you have a lab to see," she said, composing herself. "I don't want any negativity. You know you're damn lucky to be alive."

"I know that," he said softly, "and I'm grateful for it."

"I hope so," she replied, reaching around him for the boxes. She lifted them onto the shelf, checking to make sure they were in the right places, before stepping through the glass doors and out into the hallway.

He locked the door as he'd done many times before, and followed her down the hallway. He tried to take it all in at once: the pristine white lab coats carrying samples or equipment, the suits carrying folders and briefcases, and the uniforms. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry. He could sense the energy. Everybody walked so purposefully, and they all seemed to know where they were going, while he trailed a few steps behind Stella, half-paying attention as she pointed out the various labs, and offices.

She stopped outside one of the many labs, and opened the door, ushering him into a room filled with tables of evidence. Microscopes sat on every table, and huge machines lined the walls. "Look who decided to show up," she announced simply, a huge grin lighting up her face.

"Hey," said Danny, looking up from the bloodstained shirt he was swabbing. "How are ya doing? You look better than the last time I saw you."

"I bet I do," Mac replied, with his usual dry grin. "It's good to see you all, and I'm glad it's not from a hospital bed."

"Us too, boss, us too," Danny said emphatically. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm a little stiff and bruised, but other than that and my memory, I'm fine," Mac said, moving over to the main table, around which most of the team was gathered. Dishes containing hairs, fibers, and trace littered the clear tabletop, but he found himself drawn to the white button-down Danny had been holding.

_Brow furrowed, Mac picked up the briefcase and set it on his desk. It was held shut with a combination lock. He gritted his teeth, knowing exactly what the combination was. Slowly, tentatively, he spun each of the three slots to the number three, and pulled the lock open. Sliding it gently off the briefcase, he flicked the clasps and pulled the briefcase open, dreading what was inside. _

_ He sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to see, and looked down. His breath caught in the back of his throat, and he pulled out a white t-shirt, soaked in stiff patches of what was unmistakably dried blood. Forcing himself to hold it up, he inspected it for any trace he could pull off it, and then put it back in the briefcase, sinking back against the desk and burying his face in his hands._

"Mac? Hey, you with us?" asked Stella, passing her hand in front of his face.

Startled, he jolted slightly, blinking his blue eyes rapidly. "Yeah, sorry, I zoned out."

She chuckled lightly, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. "We noticed," she said, an eyebrow cocked. Her expression then sobered, as recognition sank in. "Did you remember something?"

"No," he lied quickly. Something about the bloody shirt and its discovery nagged at him, ticking the back of his mind. He wanted to place it somewhere in his timeline of memories, but he couldn't slot it in anywhere. For now, it was a solitary occurrence, but he knew that there was more to the story.

"Are your memories coming back?" asked Lindsay curiously, emerging from behind her microscope. She stood next to Danny, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning on him slightly.

It wasn't until Mac caught the flash of the diamond on her ring finger that he realized that they were married. He might have guessed it from the way they looked at each other, from the way they touched. Gathering himself, he focused on Lindsay's questions. "I've had a few flashes of memories, but they're not linear. Most of it is gone, though," he explained, looking around the lab again.

"What triggers flashbacks?" asked Danny, pulling Lindsay a little closer.

"Sometimes everyday objects trigger memories, but I haven't had many yet," Mac said, scanning the lab once again. He desperately hoped that some faces would pop out at him, but nothing jumped out.

"Like what?" Lindsay prompted, her fingers intertwined with Danny's for emotional support.

Mac hesitated. The most prominent memory was when he'd seen Stella give him that genuine smile, and it had triggered an onslaught of memories. That night he'd taken her to the diner after their first case was so far away, but yet it had stood out somehow. He wanted to keep that private, just between the two of them. Telling anybody else would destroy the moment. "Stella and I got coffee after I got out of the hospital, and we walked past this alley, and I just remembered that there had been a crime scene there," he said, drawing himself up a little more. "I could remember details about the vic, and how she'd been killed, and why."

"That's great!" Lindsay exclaimed excitedly, with a soft smile. "See, you're well on your way."

"I hope so," Mac replied, trying to muster up a smile. Truth be told, his flashbacks had been few and far between, and they didn't necessarily tell him important things about his past, his life with Claire, or how to do his job.

"So, Mac, are we on for grabbing a coffee some time?" asked Danny. He still kept his grip on Lindsay, who didn't mind at all. "We're about to finish this case, and after that I'll be pretty flexible until another case comes up."

"I'd hate for you to have unfinished paperwork," cracked Stella, with one hand on her hip. She grinned, flashing a mouthful of straight white teeth, and her green eyes sparkled as she teased him gently.

"Aww, come on Stell, I can get it authorized by the boss," Danny smirked, glancing at Mac with dancing eyes.

"It'll be good for him," he added persuasively, seeing Stella's arched eyebrow.

"I can't say no when you put it like that," Stella admitted, sobering up as she recalled his schedule for the next day. "Mac's got physio until 10:00, but you could always pick him up from there."

"Sounds like a plan," said Danny, as he closed the gap between the two groups, and stood directly in front of the two detectives. "I'll pick you up from there, Mac. Text me the address, okay, Stell?"

"Done," she replied, whipping her phone from her pocket. Punching in her password, she pulled up the address, and quickly fired off the text to him.

"Hey, have you guys seen Flack, Adam, or Hawkes yet?" Lindsay asked, crossing the room to stand with the major group. "They're all looking forward to seeing you."

Stella checked her watch quickly. "We were just going to head over there. Then we'll head down to the morgue to see Sid."

"Well, we won't keep you. We're close to finishing up in here, anyway," Lindsay said warmly, waving as Stella closed the glass door to the lab behind her. Once they were safely out of earshot, she turned to Danny, a huge grin lighting up her entire face. "Have I told you how happy I am that they're living together?"

* * *

"Flack's office is this way," Stella said, leading Mac down the unending hallway. She stopped outside the clear glass doors and knocked, even though she knew that he probably wouldn't have minded had she just walked in.

Flack looked up from his computer screen, a smile immediately stretching across his face as he saw them standing outside his door. Gesturing for them to come in, he straightened up and closed the document he'd been working on. "It's good to see ya, Mac," he said, by way of a greeting. "How are you doing?"

"That seems to be the question of the day," Mac replied drily, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of Flack's desk. "I'm fine, much better."

"I hear you're crashing at Stella's place," Flack said, grinning. "How's that?"

"He doesn't snore," Stella put in teasingly. "Or sleepwalk."

"Always a plus," Flack agreed, clapping Mac gently on the shoulder. "It's great to see you up on your feet. Rumour has it that you're catching up with Danny tomorrow. When's my turn?"

"Get in line," Mac joked, then smiled to show he had been kidding. Turning to the taller man, he considered the question. "I'm pretty flexible, really. When works for you?"

"We've gotten our suspect into custody, nabbed him last night," said Flack. "He's been locked up downstairs overnight. Hopefully we'll get a confession to add to the evidence. If you're down, we could grab lunch sometime this week."

"Sounds good to me," Mac agreed, "but you'll have to come pick me up since I'm not allowed to drive."

"I can do that," Flack said. His phone beeped, and he held up one finger, before fishing it out of his pocket. He checked the screen, tapping it a few times, before looking up, turning it off, and putting it back in his pocket. "Danny just got a confession."

"Already? It's early." Stella checked her phone for the time. It was just after nine, which looked good for finishing up paperwork and having a relatively quiet next few days, at least until another case came in. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed, and she fixed Flack with a piercing stare. "Why didn't you tell me you got him last night?"

"I texted you early this morning," Flack mollified her. "Have you checked your phone?"

"No," admitted Stella, fishing out said device accordingly. "I guess I forgot to take it off silent."

"It's all good," Flack said, a faint smile on his face. "Look, I gotta go talk to Danny. Carson's all lawyered up, and even if they do get a confession, his guys might be able to pull some strings, or convince him not to sign the confession statement."

"Sure," Stella said understandingly, "we'll let you get on your way."

"I'll see you guys later," Flack said, scooping his keys off his desk and grabbing his copy of the case file. He turned at the threshold. "Have you been to the morgue yet? I'm sure Sid will want to see you both."

"Ready for a trip to the morgue?" Stella asked Mac, waving to Flack as he disappeared down the hallway toward the elevator.

He sighed, and followed her in the opposite direction. "As ready as I'll ever be for a trip to the morgue, I guess."

"Funny." Stella gently smacked his arm, and hit the call elevator button.

* * *

The morgue was in the basement of the NYPD building, which meant that by default, the floor was darker than anywhere else. Mac could feel the tangible drop in temperature as soon as he stepped out of the elevator, goosebumps sprouting on his arms.

Stella led him confidently to a door halfway down the hallway, and walked right in, ignoring the way he balked in the doorframe, feeling as though he were interrupting something.

Sid was finishing whipstitching the Y-incision on one of the bodies' chests. Hearing footsteps, he put down the needle and looked up, snapping his glasses apart and pushing them together so they hung just above the V-neck of his scrubs. His face lit up when he saw the two detectives. "Welcome back, Mac," he said, a warm smile stretching across his face. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing well, thank you," Mac replied, still remaining a cautious distance away from the gleaming steel autopsy table.

"That's great. How's your head?" the ME asked, wearing a concerned expression.

"It's alright," Mac said, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "My memory is gone, though. The doctors say that most of it should come back over time, although I'm still waiting."

Sid tsked, and fixed the younger man with an intense stare. "With severe retrograde amnesia, it can take years for most of it to come back, but you should make a good recovery."

"Years. That's what I'm afraid of," Mac said, blue eyes dimming a little at the thought. "I remember so little, just one crime scene and a few things from earlier in my career. I guess I'm worried that none of it will ever come back, and I'll spend my entire life wondering about Claire."

"We'll help remind you," Sid said, putting a gentle hand on the detective's forearm. "I know I have pictures lying around of you and Claire, and surely you have some pictures somewhere."

"I would appreciate that," Mac said solemnly. "I just want to get part of her back."

"That's understandable," Sid sad, smiling sadly. "I'm so sorry this happened to you, but I know that you're in the best possible hands."

"I hope so," Stella said, her tongue flicking out over her lower lip, nervously. "I guess it's a step in the right direction that we have the guys responsible put away."

"It certainly is," Sid agreed, "even though it won't help you heal faster, at least justice has been served."

"Exactly," Stella said. "Now we just have to get Mac back to himself."

The problem was that was more easily said than done.


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n: **I hope you're still reading! I'm home for the summer now, so I promise updates far more often. As always, thanks for reading, and mega thanks to cornish pasties, CAT217, Victoria Addams, guest, and tlh45 for your reviews! I hope you guys enjoy the action here, and more to come soon.

* * *

**chapter eight**

Danny checked his watch, as he pulled up outside the clinic, where Mac was just finishing up his session. He was right on time, and took a deep breath as he pushed open the car door and stepped outside, into the street. Locking up, he headed inside, where he was greeted with a blast of warm air from the heaters. Adjusting his scarf, Danny quickly scanned the room for Mac, and found him, working his chest with resistance bands. Catching his eye, he gave him a small wave.

Mac released the band, and stepped away from the equipment, stretching. He could feel the dampness of his t-shirt gathering between his shoulder blades, and every muscle burned. He blew out a deep breath, and turned around to offer Danny a tentative smile. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he was ever-so-slightly nervous. Perhaps it was because he couldn't remember what kind of relationship he'd had with Danny before. He got a sense that they'd gotten along well in a professional sense, but on a more personal level, he had no idea. Mac liked to be in control, and feeling like he was going in blind scared him. He didn't know what to say, how to begin. His conversations with Stella were still stilted and awkward, and he felt a deeper connection with her than anyone else in the lab.

"I'll be just a minute," he called out, stepping away from the band, and moving past Danny towards his gym bag.

"Yeah, I'll wait here." Danny watched his former boss disappear into one of the rooms with his street clothes in hand.

When Mac emerged five minutes later, he immediately looked more like what Danny was used to seeing, in a neat suit and jewel-toned button-down. He had skipped the tie, but he still looked for all the world as though he was about to go hunt down suspects. If it hadn't been for the lack of gold flashing at his belt, and the bulk of a pistol at his hip, he could have fooled the younger detective into thinking that he was back on the job.

"You good?" Danny asked, handing him his coat, and watching intently as he fumbled with the thick folds of his burgundy knit scarf before his fingers regained their dexterity and he wound the fabric around his neck. "There's this place just down the block that I was thinking we could go to. It ain't much, but they make a damn good cup of coffee."

They stepped out into the street, the chill immediately biting at their faces. Mac adjusted his scarf so it hugged his neck more tightly, taking in a breath at the sharpness of the air. It was a slight shock, colder than he'd remembered. The familiarity of the feeling tickled at his brain, and he closed his eyes for a second, trying to recall something – anything, really, about the coming of winter. Stella spoke about snow, but he had no idea what it was. He knew he'd seen it, even played in it, but he couldn't remember what it felt like. A spark of frustration built inside him, and his cheeks flushed with the daily struggle to bring something back.

Before the spark could ignite, the sound of Danny slamming the trunk of his car pulled him back. He exhaled, letting the whoosh of air leave his lungs calm him. He watched the plume of steam rise into the air in front of him, and dissipate quickly with fascination, before he followed Danny down a few blocks, to a small café sandwiched in between an art gallery and a music store. There was a bodega just across the street, along with a hardware store and a bakery.

Tucking his scarf a little more tightly into his coat collar, Mac slid into the passenger seat of Danny's car, and buckled himself in.

"So there's this place down the road I was thinking we could go to," Danny began, turning his key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath them, and Mac found the constant vibration soothing, some how. "It ain't much, but they make a damn good cup of coffee."

"That's fine with me," Mac replied, settling into his habit of staring out the window, trying to take in every detail of the streetscape, from the light refracted from skyscraper windows to pedestrians bustling down the sidewalks in everything from pantsuits to combat boots.

When Danny pulled up outside the small coffee shop a few minutes later, Mac was surprised he would frequent a neighbourhood like the one they were in. He supposed gritty was the right word, but Danny hadn't been kidding when he said it wasn't much.

Ushering him inside, Danny inhaled the rich smell of dark roasted coffee eagerly. He stepped up to the counter, urging Mac to follow him with a glance. "I'll have a cup of dark roasted Columbian, two sugars, just a dash of milk, please," he said, giving the barista a dazzling smile. "And he'll have a cup of the same, straight."

Mac watched Danny fish his wallet adeptly out of the pocket of his jeans, and did the same. He pulled out a bill and slid it to the barista, hoping he had the right bill. She smiled at him, counted his change, and handed it back. "Thanks," he said, giving her a small smile in return. It felt like the right thing to do.

Accepting his cup of coffee in a slightly chipped china mug, he followed Danny to a window table. He sat down, taking a sip of the steaming liquid. It warmed him from the inside out, and he savoured the rich taste on his tongue. Danny also hadn't been kidding when he said they made a good cup of coffee.

"So it's good to see you back on your feet," Danny began, looking at the other man over the rim of his mug.

"It's good to be back," Mac agreed, taking another sip of his coffee. The taste was somehow familiar, and brought back memories – of late nights, early mornings, and the thin line of exhaustion held at bay.

"How's physio going?" Danny asked, taking a bite of his carrot muffin and washing it down with a swig of coffee.

"Really well, actually," Mac replied. He was a little surprised at how fast he had bounced back physically, but he had been in top condition before the accident, which had really helped his resiliency. "My ribs are still broken so I'm not allowed to do heavy lifting or anything, but the sprains are healing, and so is my shoulder. Physically, I'm a lot better." Mentally, it was a whole other story, but he bit back those words. His pride would never let him admit that to his colleagues.

"That's good to hear," said Danny, with a small sigh of relief. Mac had seemed so broken, but in reality, he'd gotten off quite lightly, at least with the physical injuries. He was lucky to have escaped with his life, especially when you took into consideration that the only bones he'd broken had been three of his ribs. He'd dislocated his shoulder and sprained both wrists and an ankle, as well as being covered in scratches, road burn, and bruises from head to toe, but it was a small price to pay for being alive. As far as all the medical professionals had been concerned, the biggest problem was how his memory had been obliterated.

Mac opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get the words past his lips, a loud bang issued from outside, shattering the silence. He jumped involuntarily at the loud noise, and looked around the café with wide eyes.

Danny's response was quick and automatic, as he leapt to his feet, hand flying to the holster at his hip. "Come on," he hissed, rousing Mac from his stupor. He sprinted out of the café, not bothering to make sure Mac was following him.

He could immediately tell that the gunshots were coming from the bodega. People streamed out of the small building, and Danny caught the scent of fear rolling off them. Drawing his gun, he pushed his way through the doors, he took stock of the situation.

Broken glass littered the floor, and packets of gum and candy spilled their colourful contents on the tiles. What drew Danny's attention, however, were the smudges of blood on the floor and counter. He hurried behind the counter, and dropped to his knees beside the crumpled body on the floor, pressing his fingers to his neck, and feeling for a pulse. It was shallow, but steady.

Sighing with relief, Danny quickly pushed one hand against the bullet wound in the man's chest, and pulled out his phone with the other. He punched in 911, and waited for the call to go through.

* * *

It pulled at him, the urge to run towards the gunshots. His common sense was yelling at him to stay safe, but some part deep inside was tugging him toward the bodega. Danny had already left, and Mac scrambled after him, confused by the dueling voices inside him. By the time he made it out the doors, the blond detective had crossed the street and disappeared.

Looking around urgently, Mac heard the bodega door slam. Acting purely on instinct, he stepped out into the street. The smell of gasoline overwhelmed him, and he stopped, trying to control the sudden wave of nausea that almost sucked him under. He looked up, and was horrified to find a taxi bearing down on him. Like a deer in the headlights, Mac froze in the middle of the street. He was powerless against the video that played unbidden in his head, trapped in a haze of gasoline fumes.

_His lungs burned, but the surge of adrenaline coursing through him forced him onwards. The smell of Stella's spicy perfume, crisp fall air, and cigarette smoke mingled in his nostrils. He could hear the perpetual vague rush of traffic, and the clicking of Stella's heels against the concrete. He was so close, his world had narrowed to the bright blue hoodie dancing tantalizingly close._

_ "Mac!" Stella's sudden scream cut pierced his focus and he stopped, staggered, and looked up for one fatal second, just long enough for his world to come grinding to a halt. He was face to face with a shiny metal grille, and he couldn't make himself move. That electric hoodie had moved, but he was paralyzed. Brakes squealed, rubber burned, and he braced himself for the impact._

_ It was absolutely crushing. He couldn't breathe as his ribs snapped like matchsticks. His shoulder popped out, blinding him with pain. The hood gave, and the windshield below him shattered under his weight, and glass scraped every inch of exposed skin raw. He felt it imbed in his face, hands, and lower back, as his shirt rode up over his hips._

_Helplessly, he rolled up and off the hood, landing hard on asphalt that tore at every surface it touched. His head hit the ground, the sickening crack spiking his pain a little higher. His suit was shredded, and his tie too tight. Through fading hearing, he heard the SUV peel off down the street, bathing him in gas fumes._

_ "Flack! Call 911!" gasped Stella, and he felt her presence at his side, fingers probing at his neck. Cold fingers wrapped around his, and she begged him to squeeze her fingers._

_ His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool, and he couldn't open his eyes. He tried to drag them apart, but they were weighted firmly shut. He tried to speak her name, but all that came out was a low rush of air, some semblance of a whisper. _

_ Stella's gentle hands smoothed his hair back from his face, fingers coming away sticky with his blood._

_ The last thing he heard before he blacked out was her voice, imploring him to stay with her. He fought desperately to hang onto consciousness, but he the darkness sucked him under, and she let out a ragged sob, a lone tear splashing onto the pavement._

Tires screamed, and Mac looked up, startled. He turned around quickly, and took an involuntary step backwards, disoriented. The yellow taxi had stopped just feet from where he was standing. He reached out, pressing his palm against the cool metal of its hood for balance, while the driver hit the horn and rolled down his window.

"What the hell are you doing, jackass?"

Eyes wide, Mac mumbled a hasty 'sorry', even though he knew the driver couldn't hear him, and stumbled towards the curb just a few feet away. His knees buckled, and he sat down heavily on the sidewalk. Turning his hands over, he inspected his palms. They'd been raw and etched with tiny scratches, all oozing blood just seconds before, but to his surprise, they were now clean and smooth.

He remembered it. He remembered all of it, from the moment of terror when he realized he couldn't move fast enough, to when he lost consciousness, bleeding and broken, on the sidewalk. The image of Stella's horrified face was forever seared into his memory, her eyes round and brilliant with unshed tears. Her voice played over and over like a broken record, begging him to open his eyes, squeeze her hand, to wake up. He shook his head, trying to shake away those panicked eyes, but they stared at him, cutting him to the bone. Burying his head in his hands, he sat on the pavement and tried to catch his breath, which was coming hard and fast. How long he sat like that, he couldn't tell.

A gentle hand on his shoulder roused him, a few minutes after sirens signaled that the victim was on his way to the hospital. "Mac, hey, are you okay?" asked Danny, crouching down next to him.

"I remembered," Mac said softly, fixing Danny with haunted blue eyes. "There was this taxi – and I remembered."

"Remembered what?" Seeing that something was wrong, Danny sat himself down on the curb next to Mac, fingers running laps around the chrome casing of his iPhone, ready to call Stella.

"The accident. I just froze when I heard that gunshot, and then I followed you across the street, but then this taxi came out of nowhere and almost hit me. And I remembered," he murmured, brokenly. "All of it." How did he go about explaining the feeling of his ribs snapping like kindling, the way the hood caved under his weight, how he tinkled with broken glass when the paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher? How did he convey the pangs of guilt at how badly he'd frightened Stella? Or even how badly he knew he'd hurt her when he looked into her face, and it was like seeing her for the first time?

Danny didn't know what to say. He'd seen enough vics to know the telltale signs of trauma, and Mac was showing most of them, from the pallor to the blank eyes. "I'm going to call Stella," he said, and slid his phone from his pocket. It scared him, seeing Mac so vulnerable. Before, the man had always seemed to be made of stone. It wasn't that he didn't want to deal with Mac, it was that Stella was far better equipped to deal with the breakdown that he could tell was coming. He was much better dealing with cops and evidence. And so, with guilt settling over him like a stifling blanket, he dialed Stella's number, and waited.

"Hey, Stella, it's Danny. We've had a little situation, and I think it would be best if you came and got Mac. He's a little shaken up," the blonde explained, fiddling with the zipper on his coat. "Sure, see you then."

"Is she coming?" asked Mac, without looking up.

"She'll be here in 10 minutes. You just sit tight," Danny replied, standing up. "I have to go talk to some cops, but I'll stay in your sight. Just holler if you need anything."

Numbly, Mac nodded. It wasn't until Danny draped his coat around his shoulders that be realized he was shaking.


	9. Chapter 9

**a/n: **My muse kind of died for this one, so it took me so long to write. Things are going to start moving along more plot-wise in the next chapter, but here's some Mac/Stella fluff in the mean time!

Thanks so much to my reviewers: timspeedlefan1, lily moonlight, Guests, cornish pasties, Victoria Addams, and tlh45! You guys are fantastic. :)

On a completely unrelated note, I've been tossing this idea for a Flack/OC story around for some time, and I'm not sure what kind of response I'd get if I posted it. It wouldn't be up till I get a little farther along here, but I'd love to hear if you'd be interested in reading it!

* * *

**chapter nine**

Stella's phone buzzed insistently, skittering across the smooth wood of her desk. Sighing, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and reached for it. "Bonasera."

Danny's voice crackled in her ear, tinged with panic held at bay. Her chest tightened, and apprehension formed an icy puddle in her belly. She forced herself to take a deep breath, but the words 'taxi', 'Mac', and 'close call' were enough to make her heartbeat run a marathon. "I'll be right there," she said, already sliding into her jacket and grabbing her keys. "Give me 10 minutes, and I'll be there."

She pulled up as close to the crime scene as possible, and jumped out of the Avalanche. She ran down the sidewalk as fast as she could in four-inch heels, dodging police officers, onlookers, and the media. Passing a clump of them, she spotted Mac immediately. He was sitting on the curb, hunched over, Danny's jacket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. "Hey," she said gently, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Hi," he said, voice low and gravelly, as he looked up. He clamped the jacket in his fist to keep it from sliding off his shoulders.

"How are you doing?" she asked, sitting down next to him.

"I remembered everything. I just looked into that cab's headlights, and it all came back," he admitted, unable to meet her eyes. He was still trembling weakly from the phantom pain.

Stella reached out to rub his back, then paused, hand hovering in the air a few inches from him. She never knew whether he wanted to be touched or not. She found hugs comforting, given the right time and place, but knew from experience that he shut down when his emotions fought to come through. Deciding against it, she folded her hands in her lap. "Do you want to go home?" she asked, quietly.

"I think that would be a good idea." He stood up shakily, eyes roving the scene for Danny.

The CSI in question was leaning against the bodega wall. He was intent on speaking to the two uniformed cops in front of him. Every once in a while, his arms would come up, and he would gesticulate, trying to paint a picture of the scene he'd found.

Mac watched him for a few seconds, before heading over. He stood just off to the side, not wanting to interrupt.

"Excuse me," Danny said in a low voice, and stepped out of the circle, making his way towards Mac. "How are you doing?"

"Fine. I'm going to head back now," he replied, nodding in Stella's direction. Sliding off the borrowed jacket, he handed it to the younger man. "Thanks for the coffee. Maybe we can schedule that dinner sometime?"

"Sure thing." Danny's eyes brightened for an instant, and he clapped Mac on the shoulder. "You take care of yourself, and let us know when you're up to it."

"Will do," Mac said, giving him a tiny wave, as he turned and walked towards Stella. She led him to her car, unlocked the doors, and slid into the driver's seat.

"Do you want to eat anything when we get back?" she asked, checking the time on the dashboard. It was just before 11:30, and she was about ready for lunch.

"I think I'll just take a nap," he replied, head already drooping against the passenger's window. He was still watching the scenery, but he wasn't taking in every detail as per usual. Instead, he watched the buildings roll by, just for something to do. He was embarrassed that Stella had seen him in that state, with his emotions bared. He felt almost naked, and couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"Sure," Stella said, as she changed lanes. She could sense that he didn't want to talk, and didn't push the subject.

A few minutes later, she was unlocking the door of her apartment. Pushing it open, she flicked on the lights and set her shoes in a neat pair on the doormat.

"I'll see you in a bit," Mac mumbled, heading past her into his room.

"Okay," Stella replied, draping her coat on the hook and scarf next to it. "I'm going to make some food, so it'll be there if you get hungry."

"Sounds good," Mac replied, and the door clicked shut a few seconds later.

He stumbled towards his bed in an exhausted haze, shedding his suit jacket and belt as he walked. Every limb felt leaden, and his head was spinning. He loosened his tie, pulled it off, and threw it on top of his suitcase. In his sock feet and shirtsleeves, he fell onto the bed and curled up, staring blankly at the wall. He was struggling to process the events of the last few hours, and his head ached with the effort. With heavy eyelids, he tugged the pillow closer and rested his head on it. He closed his eyes, and let himself drift off, hoping for some kind of respite.

* * *

_The headlights came closer and closer, and he couldn't move. Every instinct was screaming for him to run, but his body was paralyzed. Eyes wide, he watched helplessly as it approached, time slow as molasses. Every muscle tensed, and he steeled himself for the impact. Brakes squealed, and the acrid smell of burning rubber hit him like a slap. The SUV plowed into him; his body broke. He felt the windshield break. Glass drove deep into his exposed skin._

_ Distantly, he heard Stella scream._

Mac woke up with a jolt, throat raw from the strangled yell that echoed around the room. He propped himself up on one elbow, and stiffly sat up. The room already dark, and he estimated it was about 8 pm. Had Stella gone back to the precinct?

The door flew open, and she stood in the doorway, green eyes wide with apprehension. "Are you okay?" she asked, taking a few steps into the dim room.

"Yeah, I'm good," he replied, rubbing a hand over his closely cropped hair. He could already feel his cheeks colouring with embarrassment, and was glad it was dark so Stella couldn't tell. "Just a nightmare."

Stella frowned. The flashbacks and nightmares were classic symptoms of PTSD. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he snapped, turning away from her. "No, I don't."

"Are you sure?" she pressed gently, concern written all over her face. She folded her arms across her chest, leaning in the doorway.

"Drop it," he growled, getting up and stretching. "I said I don't want to talk about it!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she said, backing up a step, and holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. We won't. Do you want some supper? I made spaghetti."

His face fell at the hurt look in her eyes, and he looked down again, studying the half-moons on his fingernails intently. "I'm sorry. I just don't want to talk about it."

"It's alright," Stella said gently, padding over to him. She put a soothing hand on his shoulder, and squeezed lightly. "Why don't we get something to eat? Then we'll all feel better."

Food wasn't going to fill the gaping hole in his memories, but it would help the emptiness in his stomach. "Sure," he acquiesced, standing slowly. He followed her into the kitchen, where she had a colander of pasta on the stove, and a small pot of rosé sauce. Two plates were stacked on the counter, and the table was set for two.

She untied her apron, hanging it on a hook by the fridge, and began to spoon pasta onto a plate. Dolloping a generous helping of sauce on top, she handed it to Mac, who gave her some semblence of a smile, and sat down at the table. He waited until she'd seated herself to start eating, and they ate their meals in companionable silence.

It wasn't until Stella had pretty much finished her plate that she put down her fork for a second, and gave Mac a long look over the rim of her glass. He hadn't said a word since he'd agreed to eat supper, and she suspected he wanted to keep it that way, since he was perfectly capable of starting a conversation when he wanted to.

As if he felt the intensity of her gaze, Mac looked up from his forkful of pasta. His eyes locked on hers, before she wavered, and refocused on a knot in the table. "What?" he asked simply.

"Nothing," she replied, taking a sip of water.

"You were staring at me," he said, voice low.

Stella heaved a massive sigh. "I'm just trying to figure you out, Mac Taylor. You're still as hard to read as ever." She wrapped her fingers around the base of her glass, squeezing gently. She'd just unintentionally laid all of her cards on the table, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"Hard to read?" he asked, a small sliver of light dancing in his eyes. He still looked bone-tired, but his eyes had brightened in amusement. "I'm not trying to be enigmatic."

"Sorry," Stella chuckled, taking another sip. She stood up and stretched, before padding over to the freezer and looking inside. "Do you want some ice cream?"

"Depends. What kind?" Mac asked earnestly, craning his neck to peer past her into the icy depths.

"Is coffee okay?" Stella replied, reaching into the freezer and pulling out the tub. Setting it on the counter, she got two bowls, and scooped two generous portions.

"Good to know you like your coffee in ice cream form too," Mac ribbed her gently.

"Gotta get my fix in any form I can," she agreed, licking the spoon and tossing into the sink. She passed him a bowl, and slid back into her chair, taking a small spoonful of the dessert.

"I don't think I've ever had coffee ice cream before," he said, staring fixedly at the bowl in front of him. Gingerly, he poked the tip of his spoon into the semi-solid mass, breaking off a little. He stirred it, looking slightly apprehensive.

"Just try it, I think you'll like it." Stella leaned forward on her elbows. She knew how much Mac liked his coffee, which was practically a requirement for the job anyway, but she figured he'd enjoy his favourite beverage in ice cream form just as much.

He nibbled tentatively at the tiny bit of ice cream on his spoon, then looked up in surprise. "It's actually good."

"I figured you'd like it," Stella laughed, dragging her spoon around the inside of her bowl. She carried her empty bowl to the sink, and rinsed it out, before reseating herself at the table. "Do you want to do anything tonight, like watch a movie?"

"I think I'll just read," Mac replied, swallowing another spoonful of ice cream. His face puckered as a rush of intense cold spread through his head. He winced, rubbing his fingers along his temples, and massaging his cheeks. "It's cold."

"Brain freeze." Stella bit back another laugh at the look of confusion on his face. "Try smaller bites."

He still looked wounded, but nodded, finished off his bowl. He followed Stella's lead, rinsing his bowl and placing it in the sink, before wandering off to his bedroom, and shutting the door.

Stella retreated to her room to change out of her work clothes into something a little more comfortable, before emerging into the living room with a book. She put it on top of the stack of case files and paperwork decorating her coffee table, and padded into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. It was barely 9 o'clock, and she was exhausted, and in desperate need of some down time. Flicking on the light, she reluctantly plucked the folder of paperwork from the table, and flipped it open. She clicked her pen absently, as she scanned the legalese in front of her, filling in the blanks on the form. She signed her name neatly across the bottom, and turned to the next one.

By 10:30, Stella was on her second cup of tea, and whittling away at her paperwork. Her eyelids were getting heavy, and the book was calling her name. She finished the last of her paperwork, and put the folder down with a sigh of relief, reaching for her book.

It was a murder mystery with some shameless romance. She couldn't help her attraction to the dark storylines. She supposed it was in some kind of vain attempt to understand where the various killers were coming from, although every case the lab had ever handled was different. Some were crimes of passion, some were carefully planned, down to the last detail. Every single one was unique, like a fingerprint. Curling up more comfortably, she flipped open the book, and began to read.

A few steamy scenes later, she was well and truly ensconced in the couch, and absorbed in her reading material. Yawning, she rubbed a hand over her eyes, and went back to the tantalizing words in front of her.

The floor creaked, and a thin slant of light fell across the hardwood, as Mac opened the door and padded towards the kitchen, trying not to disturb his former partner, who had her nose in a book. She turned around anyway at the sound of his footsteps, and he froze like a deer in the headlights. "Hey," she said softly. "I thought you were asleep."

"Not yet," he replied, eyeing her with interest. Although the two had been close before the accident, he couldn't remember ever seeing her in casual clothes. Stella in pajama pants and a hoodie was a concept as foreign as Flack's accessories matching. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he rather liked it.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" she asked, slipping her bookmark between the creamy pages, and placing her book aside reluctantly. She gestured to the kettle on the counter. "There should still be some camomile left."

"Sure." Mac paced over to the kitchen, hands skimming over the cupboards as he tried to remember which one housed the mugs. He pulled down a plain brown pottery mug, and filled it with the piping hot liquid. Blowing gently on it, he took a sip, and padded over to the couch. Stella shifted her legs a little farther up on the couch in a silent invitation.

Mac took it gratefully, settling himself deeply into the plush chenille. "Thanks," he said quietly, staring down into the depths of his mug of tea. He took a small swig of the steaming liquid, trying to force down his guilt. He felt it niggling in, creeping into every crevice of his being. An apology crawled up the back of his throat, the words bubbling at his lips. He chased them down with another mouthful of tea. The burn on the back of his throat felt like some kind of punishment for how he'd treated her today. "I'm sorry." He said it softly, twisting his fingers in his lap.

"What?" Stella asked, bemused, as she turned towards him. She ran a hand through her messy curls, tugged at the waistband of her flannel pajama pants.

"I'm sorry, I was a complete asshole to you today," he said bitterly. "I guess I'm having a tough time processing all of this."

In the dim light, Stella's green eyes widened. "You thought I was mad at you? I'm not mad at you. I'm not even upset. God, Mac, I can't even understand what you must be going through. Of course I'm not mad at you."

"Thank you," Mac said, still unable to meet her eyes.

Stella looked over at the hunched figure sitting at the end of the couch. She sighed, and scooted closer to him, wrapping her arms around the bent man, and pulling him to her. To her surprise, he didn't flinch, startle, or pull away. Instead, he leaned into her, resting his head on her shoulder. The human contact soothed him, and he relaxed into her embrace. He breathed in the faded smell of her sandalwood perfume, and everything that he had come to know represented her. A curl brushed his cheek, and his hands found her waist.

They weren't out of the woods yet, but it was a solid start.

* * *

Please leave me a review if you enjoyed this update! I promise I'll have the next chapter up sooner if you do. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**a/n: **An update in two weeks? Preposterous! Thank you so much to my lovely reviewers: Guest, .58, cornish pasties, Smuffly, Madame Starlight, and tlh45. You guys are fantastic!

* * *

**chapter ten**

Almost a month had passed since that fateful outing with Danny. Fall had run seamlessly into winter, and Mac and Stella had sort of settled into some kind of normalcy, or at the very least a routine. She worked during the day, and tried to get back to the apartment before midnight. He spent his days reading and wandering the city, trying to bring anything back. His head felt like a 1000-piece puzzle that had just been started. It was full of holes, blank spaces where there should have been a plethora of memories.

He remembered where his apartment was – they'd driven past, but hadn't made it in. He knew how to get to the precinct, and how to get to the hospital. In short, he was beginning to function like a normal person, although the blankness behind his bright blue eyes still made Stella's guts twist.

There was that one memorable day when Stella came home to find that Mac had apparently decided to teach himself how to cook. She had a solid collection of cookbooks, most that hadn't been touched in years, and he had just gotten bored and sat himself down with one of them and attempted soup. It wasn't bad for a first effort, she'd had to admit, as they sat at the kitchen table in amiable silence, and watched the winter wind blow debris around the street below.

He'd never been much for conversation, and now his lack of memories had robbed him of inspiration, so she was getting used to the silences. She didn't always have the energy to prompt discussions after late nights at the lab, and those nights she was especially grateful for warm dinners and being able to just enjoy his presence.

The nightmares hadn't stopped, and he would wake up screaming, unable to catch his breath, and drenched in cold sweat. Where those tears glimmering in his eyes? Stella didn't ask, and she didn't mind sitting on the bed with him, fingers intertwined with his, or holding him until he succumbed to peaceful sleep, even if her body resented the lack of sleep in the morning.

_ "Marine, stay with me. Marine!" He was begging, shaking the boy's shoulders. Blood leaked lazily from the gaping chest wound, shrapnel embedded deep in his flesh. Mac pressed his hands firmly over the other boy's chest, feeling liquid trickle between his fingers, sickeningly warm and sticky. The boy was bleeding out in front of him, and he was surrounded by an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Sure, he'd received extensive first aid training, but nothing could have prepared him for this._

_ They said experience was the best teacher, and Mac figured he was about to find out. He unlaced his shoe quickly, fingers tripping on the thin string. Shuddering, he reached into the wound, feeling flesh squelch under his fingers, and probed around for the source of the bleed. He swallowed back a rush of bile, and found the torn artery. With trembling hands, he slid the lace around it, and tied it tightly, hoping to staunch the bleeding. He sat back on his haunches, staring at the face in front of him. The boy was turning grey, the colour of ashes. His hand was cold in Mac's, and blood was pooling around him, congealing in the dirt._

_ "Stay with me, we'll get you out of here," Mac told him, trying to stay the cracking in his voice. He watched as the light faded from his eyes, and his head fell back, lax against the ground. Every feature slackened, and he found himself staring into the open, blank eyes of his first dead body._

_ Those expressionless eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life._

"Stay with me! Come on, stay with me! We'll get you out of here," Mac mumbled, voice slurred and rough with sleep. "No!" A sob wrenched itself from him, and he sat bolt upright, fingers fumbling for an invisible body in front of him. "No…" It was fainter this time, and he sat back, looking around the small, simply furnished room. He wasn't in Beirut, and Stella's apartment was very much intact. The room smelled fresh and clean, not so thick with smoke he could taste it, acrid on his palate and stinging his nostrils.

"Another nightmare?" Stella clucked sympathetically from the doorway, curls mussed from sleep, and eyes soft and tired. She wrapped her robe over her pajamas, and the bed dipped as she sat down on the edge of it. "You okay?"

"I'm okay," Mac said quietly, pulling his pajama shirt down from where it had ridden up over his hips. "I don't think I'm going to be sleep again, though."

"That bad, huh?" she asked, as she stood and moved to the window. She parted the curtains and stared out over the city, which was lit up beautifully. It was quiet, without even the distant whine of traffic far below as white noise. It was just beginning to snow, a few flakes drifting from the inky sky. "Look, it's starting to snow."

"Is it?" He stood up slowly, relinquishing the warmth of his bed with difficulty, and joined her at the window. "Can we go outside?"

"Mac, it's," she broke off to check the time on his alarm clock, "3 am."

"I want to experience snow," he said, adding a 'please?' for good measure.

And that was how they found themselves in Central Park at 3:15 in the morning, walking slowly through the first snowfall of the year.

Snow sifted down over them, catching in Stella's curls like minute, glittering diamonds in the weak orange beam from the lampposts. It dusted his dark hair, melting into cold droplets of moisture. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything as breathtakingly gorgeous as Central Park blanketed in virgin snow. It glimmered, every surface coated in pure, crystalline white. No footprints marred the vast expanses of its pristine surface, and their footprints were muffled as their feet sank into the snow, already a few inches thick. The park was deserted, adding to the feeling of being in another world.

"Isn't it lovely?" he breathed softly, hardly daring to raise his voice above a whisper.

"It's beautiful," she replied in hushed tones, looking out over the pond.

He nodded, picking his way delicately through the snow towards Bapstow Bridge. In its shadow, he looked up at stones soaring above his head, enjoying the way the snow slanted over his head.

"Careful, I don't feel like pulling you out of the pond this morning," Stella warned him gently, following him towards the bridge.

Pulling off his gloves, he bent down at the water's edge and trailed his fingers through the frigid water, enjoying the way the cold made his skin tingle. It made him feel alive, whole almost. It was an exhilarating feeling, one he hadn't felt before. He wanted to run, climb, jump off the skyscrapers. Turning back to Stella, Mac caught a glimpse of her wide smile as she watched him. Scrambling up the bank, he made his way up to bridge, waiting for her to catch up to him, and they walked over it together. Halfway across, he paused, face upturned like a daisy, catching the lights from the plaza and the skyscrapers. The combination of urban and country was beautiful, and he loved being in the middle of it.

"It's so peaceful here," he said, looking out over the water. It was calm, except for the faint gurgling of flowing water beneath them, and the sound of falling snow. "It's like we're not in the middle of a busy city. It's like it's just the two of us."

"It could be just the two of us," Stella agreed, as his hand bumped into hers, fingers still cold from the icy water. Impulsively, she took it gently, wrapping her warm fingers around his cool ones.

He didn't know how or why, but his body instinctively pressed against hers, holding her close. His hand found her waist, and her head dropped just slightly to rest on his shoulder. They stayed like that, comfortably still, just watching the water flow and the snow fall, under the diffused glow of the iron lamppost. It felt perfect. "Stella?" he asked softly, arm shifting a little to pull her closer.

"Mmhm?" She nestled into him, cheek rubbing against the slightly scratchy surface of his wool coat.

"This is perfect."

"It is," she replied, closing her eyes for a few seconds, and letting the smell of him surround her, mixing with the freshness of the air and the faint aroma of coconut from her shampoo. When she opened her eyes, she found him staring down at her with that deep, searching look she'd seen thousands of times, his blue eyes alight with a genuine happiness. His head dipped towards hers, moving oh so slowly, and her face turned up to meet him. His breath danced across her upper lip, and he tucked a stray curl behind her ear with tender, deft fingers. Eyes fluttering closed, she waited, aching for the contact she knew they both wanted.

And then the gentle warmth of his breath faded, and her eyes opened on their own. He was staring out over the black water, gaze thoughtful, with gleam of disappointment. They had been so close, and the contours of her body fit his like two puzzle pieces. She had wanted it – had wanted so much to feel those lips pressed against hers, and from the look in his eyes, she could tell that he felt the same. Frowning slightly, Stella straightened up, putting a hand on his shoulder blade. "Do you want go a little further?"

"Hm?" he asked, turning back distractedly. He withdrew his hands, tucked them in his pockets. "Oh. Yeah."

"Let's go." She placed a hand in the crook of his elbow, drawing him with her, and they crossed the bridge and headed towards Heckscher Fields. The didn't talk, just took in the scenery, breath pluming in the darkness.

"Have you ever made a snow angel?" asked Stella, as they stood on the periphery of the field, hand still tucked firmly in his arm.

"No… I don't remember." He said it sadly, wistfully, and the spark of pain in his eyes felt like a knife to her chest. Determined to chase it away, she grinned, tugging at his hand like a child.

"I'll teach you. Come on!" She raced away from him, boots sinking into the soft snow, leaving a glittering trail of footprints in her wake.

He followed, running after her, snow spurting up from under his feet.

She plopped herself down, pillowing her head in her hands, and staring up at the night sky. It wasn't completely dark; there was no such thing in the city. But still, she could see just a few stars sparkling determinedly.

"This doesn't look very angelic to me," Mac said, his shadow falling across her as he peered down at her.

"Not yet." Smiling widely, she extended her arms and legs, and moved them up and down in a windshield-wiper motion, and then stood up carefully. She hopped away from her Stella-angel, and looked down at it, arms folded in satisfaction. "Now it's an angel. You make one."

Obediently, Mac got carefully down on his hands and knees, and lay on his back, swishing his arms and legs just as she had. Gingerly, he stood up and took a jump away from his cherubic snow silhouette, and stood next to Stella, eyeing the compacted snow with appraisal. "Not bad, not bad at all."

He was so busy admiring the first snow angel of his adult life, that the snowball caught him off guard, splattering against his black coat and spilling snow down his collar. "What-" Whirling around, he saw Stella grinning like a maniac from a safe distance away, another snowball in her now gloved hands. He knelt, quickly gathering another handful of snow, and her other snowball nailed his side, marking him with white again. "It's on!" he called mock-threateningly, packing the handful together and hurling it at her.

Dodging easily, Stella spun gracefully away from him, managing another hit to his back as he tried for another snowball.

"Come closer!" he growled out, feigning frustration.

"Guess you're going to have to catch me," she taunted, taking off through the fields. She was fast, but he was faster, and he grabbed her swinging wrist, pulling her down into the snow with him. He broke her fall, as she landed next to him, legs tangled with his, breathing hard. "Guess you caught me."

"Yeah." He grinned triumphantly, throwing a snowball of his own directly at her stomach.

"I've been shot!" she yelled, in between giggles, brushing the snow off her belly.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concerned, as her hand snaked up and pushed a handful of snow down his collar. He yelped, squirming, and tried frantically to pick the melting snow out of his coat. "That was a dirty trick!"

"All's fair in love and snowball fights," she quipped merrily, eyes glimmering with mischief. She rolled away from him, but he pulled her down gently, and she stayed there. She reached out to lace her fingers with this, letting their arms sink back into the powder.

"We should do this more often," Mac said, looking over at her. He didn't think she'd ever looked more radiant than she did now, curls wild and fanned out over the fresh snow, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. She was his snow angel.

"Yeah," she agreed, catching her breath. Silence fell over them, and they breathed together, watching the stars above and their breath steam in the air. It was a cold night, but they glowed with warmth and health, and a genuine happiness to be alive. "Yeah, we definitely should."

* * *

Sometimes I can't help myself and write shameless Mac/Stella fluff. I promise this is essential to the plot, though, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! As always, please review if you liked it! My reviews are dropping, and it's a little discouraging. As always, thank you for reading, and more soon.


	11. Chapter 11

**a/n: **Whaddup, an update in under a week? You guys were so encouraging, and it really helped with the general inspiration, so here you go! I hope you enjoy it, and as always, please do let me know what you think.

Thanks a million to my lovely reviewers: Abismith41, SMACkedHuddy, .58, Robby Swan, tlh45, CSIflea, smuffly, Guest, and cornish pasties, and everybody who's read this so far. You all are awesome.

* * *

**chapter eleven**

There was no denying that it was Christmas in New York. From the lights everywhere and Santas on every corner, it was a beautiful time of year.

Mac could only wish his home life was as beautiful. The night he'd spent with Stella in Central Park had been magical. Just the image of her running through Heckscher Fields, snowflakes in her hair, cheeks flushed with laughter, was enough to bring a smile to his face. Since then, they'd been a little awkward, more from the almost-kiss than from the time they'd spent playing in the snow.

It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to. He had wanted to, and he could tell she felt the same from the way she looked up at him, eyes glittering, not wanting to make the first move but begging him to. His pride got in the way, like it always did. His reluctance stemmed from not wanting to make a mistake. He didn't want to embarrass himself, and he couldn't remember what it was like to kiss anyone. Obviously, he and Claire had, but he had no memory of what her lips had felt like on his.

Tapping his fingers along the side of his coffee cup, Mac stared down into its depths, trying to figure out what to do for the day. Stella had already left for the lab, and he was alone in the apartment. He finished his bagel and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Winding his warmest scarf around his neck, Mac slid into his coat, pulled a toque down over his ears, and grabbed his gloves. He collected his spare key and wallet, and left the apartment building.

It was colder out than it had been in a while, but the crisp air was refreshing, and helped to clear his head. The streets were already busy, and unlike the last few days, where he'd sort of wandered aimlessly, Mac had an idea of where he was going and what he was doing. He was buying Stella a Christmas present. Now, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to get her, but it had to be special. He vaguely remembered a small antique shop about ten blocks down from her apartment, and it seemed like a good place to start.

Lingering outside the store, Mac stared through the glass, trying to screw up the courage to go in. He felt a little guilty for not telling Stella about his trip to the bank yesterday, but the entire point of this excursion was to get her a present, and if that meant a little secrecy, so be it. He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. He inhaled deeply, savouring the heady combination of potpourri, metal, and vintage fabrics.

He browsed the store, fingering velvet and silk, before he made it over to the counter that held the jewellery. He ran his fingers over the smooth glass, staring down at the array of precious metals glittering enticingly beneath his fingers. Some were gaudy, some weren't, but they were all lovely. Nothing stood out from the rest, so he bent over, all but pressing his nose to the glass.

There it was. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it, but there it was, circled by various pieces that were far more ostentatious.

"Can I help you with anything?"

Mac startled, jerking upright. He cleared his throat, covering his surprise as best he could. "Oh. Yes, I'd like to see that one right there." He tapped the glass above it, watching as the shopkeeper slid the display open and gently pulled out the pendant in question.

"Vintage Tiffany's. Good eye," the older man smiled, passing it gingerly to Mac. It coiled in his palm, cool as ice.

"It's lovely," Mac said, holding it up to the light and admiring the way the light hit the metal and jewels. It swung slowly, and he watched it spin, mesmerized. It was just perfect for Stella: a slim sterling silver chain with a single, simple charm in the shape of a snowflake suspended from it. Six tiny, pale blue aquamarines adorned each tip. Normally, he would have pegged her as more the gold type, but excitement thrummed through him as he closed his fingers around it, sealing it close to his palm. He opened his hand, and smiled widely as he passed it back to the shopkeeper. "I'll take it. How much?"

"For you, $250," the shopkeeper said, taking the delicate necklace and slipping it into a box.

Mac opened his wallet, flicking through the neat row of bills. He mostly had the currency thing down, but he had to pause and think about it. Fingers trembling with the fear of not knowing if he was counting right, he peeled off the correct amount, and passed it to the shopkeeper, who counted it and handed the tiny blue velvet box to Mac.

"Thank you," he said, pocketing the box, and pulling his toque on again. He barely felt the cold as he emerged into the chilly winter day, walking back towards Stella's apartment, smiling to himself.

Once he'd locked the door firmly behind him, shed his coat, toque, scarf, and gloves, Mac headed to the kitchen to boil some water for a cup of tea. While he waited, he retreated to his bedroom, cupping the box in his hands like it was a precious baby bird.

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he settled himself on the duvet, and flicked open the box, pulling the necklace out gently just to admire it. It was just as beautiful as he'd remembered, even though he'd only bought it 45 minutes ago. He flipped the snowflake over, running his fingers over the delicately engraved script on the back that read 'Tiffany & Co.' He pressed it into his palm, feeling the six points dig into the fleshy heel of his palm. Then, he held them it up to the light, which refracted stunningly off the aquamarines. It reminded him of something, but he wasn't sure exactly what.

_ It was a gorgeously sunny Christmas morning in New York. The entire Taylor-Conrad apartment smelled like a delicious mix of fir tree, eggnog, coffee and gingerbread cookies._

_ Claire and Mac were nestled together on the couch, arms around each other. A small pile of presents had accumulated on the coffee table, bright wrapping paper strewn across the floor. Most of them had been opened, all except one in a small box._

_ Mac reached past Claire to scoop it up, and passed it to her. "I got this for you. It's not much, but just promise me you'll think of me whenever you wear it, okay?" he said softly, placing a gentle hand on her arm._

_ Eagerly, she ripped through the red, green, and gold wrapping paper, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it lightly onto the floor. "Oh, Mac…" she breathed, fingers fumbling for the clasp on the distinctive robin's egg blue box. "You shouldn't have."_

_ "I wanted to," he said, eyes lighting up as she opened it, pulling out a delicate necklace._

_ Giggling excitedly, she looked over the necklace. It was gold, with a thin chain and two interlocking rings that were similar to the wedding bands she and Mac wore. "It's beautiful!" she squealed, fingering the chain gently, as though she were afraid to break it. She held it out to him, and he opened the clasp. She swept her hair out of the way, and he fastened it behind her neck._

_ "What do you think?" Claire asked, as she released her long, dark auburn hair, and spun to face him._

_ "It's perfect." He ran a finger over the two rings, then whisper-soft, his fingers drifted over her collarbone, before he tilted his head in, and brushed his lips against hers. "You're perfect," he said happily, when they parted. "And I am so lucky to have you."_

_ Her grip tightened around his waist, and she pulled him close, nestling her head against his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Mac. Thank you so much, for everything."_

_ "You're welcome. Merry Christmas, Claire," he replied, kissing the top of her head, and snuggling closer to her, inhaling her intoxicating scent of cinnamon and vanilla._

Mac snapped back to reality with a jolt, finding himself shifting the necklace between his cupped palms, enjoying the feel of the chain running between his fingers, smooth and cool as water. He felt a stab of guilt; was it fair to get Stella something that triggered memories of Christmas with Claire? This wasn't a flashback he was going to share with her.

Unable to look at the object between his hands, he slipped it hurriedly back into its box and shoved it into the back of his closet, and fell back onto the bed. His head was spinning as he tried to process what he'd just remembered. He knew what Claire looked like, what she felt like, even what she smelled like. If he focused hard enough, he could almost catch a whiff that blend of cinnamon and vanilla, spicy yet calming. He breathed in deeply, and was disappointed to find only the lingering subtle smell of Stella's woodsy sandalwood perfume.

There was a sudden, surprising warmth on his cheeks, and when he reached up, he stared at the wetness on his fingers in incomprehension. Was he crying? Swiping the dampness away, Mac cleared his throat a few times to get rid of the lump sitting solidly at the back of his throat, and shuffled to the kitchen, recalling Stella's penchant for tea when she was upset. He had no idea how a hot cup of said beverage would help, but it was worth a shot.

The kettle was whistling, and he turned the heat beneath it off, as he rummaged through the cupboards for the drawer his best friend had dedicated to tea. Mac selected the vanilla black tea she always went for when she needed to relax, and popped a sachet into his favourite mug. He watched in fascination as the liquid darkened as he poured steaming water over tea bag, releasing a tantalizing faint vanilla scent. Wrapping his hands around the cup, he let the warmth bleed into his palms, and was a little taken aback by how comforting it was. He stirred it absently as he settled into the most comfortable chair, drawing his legs up underneath him.

Mac took small sips of the piping hot liquid, and stared off into space. He had a lot to think about, and a lot to figure out before Stella came home. His emotions were whirling, and he felt himself grieving for the wife he only knew through flashbacks. He supposed he had felt happy with Claire, but he had no tangible memories, just that one flashback that was fading already, the smell of Claire pushed away by Stella's perfume. He needed to inhale Claire's blend, not the familiar smell of sandalwood.

Running his hands over his close-cropped hair, Mac jumped up and ran to the windows, unlocking them, and pushing them open. He sucked in lungfuls of the sharply cold air, letting the fresh outdoorsy smell wash away any traces of Stella. He needed Claire. He _needed_ her. Maybe if the apartment didn't smell of Stella, he could get Claire back, just for a second. He clung to that hope like a drowning man to a life preserver, and settled himself back on the couch, head tipped back, just trying to smell cinnamon and vanilla. He tried and tried, as the temperature in the apartment dropped lower and lower, and his muscles seized in convulsive shivers.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Darkness fell, and he stayed still, tea virtually untouched. It was only when the door opened and Stella dropped her bag with a thud that he relaxed a little.

"Jesus, Mac, it's cold in here!" she exclaimed, bursting into a small flurry of activity somewhere behind him, kicking off her boots, hanging up her coat, folding her scarf. She emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later, a thick navy blue Patagonia fleece sweater over her emerald cap-sleeved blouse. She hugged him from behind, leaning over the sofa to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "Oh. All the windows are open."

He said nothing, forced himself not to recoil at the smell of not-Claire. He didn't move as her arms slipped away, as the wiry curls left his skin cool in their wake.

She headed for the windows, and began snapping them shut, rubbing at the goosebumps on her forearms. When she reached out to close the last one, Mac's shout of protest froze her in her tracks, and she spun around, a concerned frown on her face. "Are you okay, Mac?" she asked, worriedly.

"Fine." His tone was clipped, eyes not meeting hers. "I'm fine."

"If you're sure." She looked him over, gaze piercing, but didn't push it further. Chills ran over her body, and his entire body was dimpled with goosebumps, posture folded in on himself in an unconscious attempt to stay warm. She tossed him a blanket, and he tucked it around himself, numbly.

"Sorry, I zoned out."

"I can see that," she said, relaxing just a little as his shivering eased. "I'll heat up some soup for us, okay? You don't have to tell me what's going on if you don't want to, but I'm here if you want to."

Mac nodded his assent. Maybe someday he would tell her, but not right now. He couldn't right now.


	12. Chapter 12

**a/n: **Thank you all for your support! It means a lot to me, and I know this is kind of late, but I hit a dead end muse-wise, but I worked through it, and here we are. I'd especially like to thank my reviewers for all your kind words: cornish pasties, Robby Swan, tlh45, Madison Bellows, smuffly, Victoria Addams, and Guest. I hope you enjoy this update. :)

Also on a shamelessly self-promoting note, I have my newest story, Redemption, up, so if you like Flack or OCs or creepy serial killers, it might be right up your alley.

* * *

**chapter twelve**

With every passing day, Stella felt the gap between them widen, till they may as well have been staring at each other from across the Grand Canyon. If Mac had ever tried to bridge the abyss, she would have responded immediately, running to greet him.

It felt like two ships passing in the night as the days ticked by, Christmas drawing ever closer. They barely spoke, eating together but very much apart. They co-existed in an uneasy equilibrium of whispers and parallel lifestyles.

Stella was in the middle of one of the annual spikes in crime and suicide, and she was off to at least one crime scene a day, and working herself to the bone to manage the lab. Jess was working full-time, keeping Flack company at the precinct, hired on to keep the complement of detectives full. Mac was lucky if he saw her at night, before he went to bed.

That was exactly why, when she appeared at just after eight on the Thursday night the week before Christmas, trailing in snow and salt, Mac assumed the worst.

"Hey," she said cautiously, prying off her snow-covered boots, and shucking off her coat and scarf like an extra skin.

"You're home early," he remarked, turning around in the armchair and closing his book.

"I am." She grinned, and looked around the apartment, looking more cheerful than she had in days. "What are we missing?"

"I don't know," Mac said bemusedly, shooting her a blank look.

"A Christmas tree!" she replied, with an enthusiasm he was unused to seeing.

"A Christmas tree?" he echoed, staring at her with the same blank look.

"Because it's December 21st," she told him playfully, crossing into the kitchen to pull a plastic container of pot roast out of the fridge. She dumped the contents into a saucepan and placed it on the stove.

"And?" Mac raised an eyebrow, leaning over the back of the couch and staring at her as she began setting the table.

"And tonight," she said, putting two plates on the table, "we are going out and getting a tree."

"Tonight?" He frowned, getting reluctantly out of his chair and padding into the kitchen, where he settled himself in the chair he'd come to call his own.

"We both need a distraction," she replied bluntly, stirring the contents of the saucepan. "You've barely spoken to me in the last few weeks, and I don't know what to _say_ to you."

He rubbed his hands over his face, a surge of guilt crashing over him like a tidal wave. It wasn't like she hadn't tried to talk to him, but he hadn't known what to say either. Every time he rebuffed her attempts to reach out, he felt her shrink away, and he wanted to grab her and pull her to him and never let her go, but he just couldn't make himself do it.

He dreamed of Claire, he dreamed of planes and towers and smoke and rubble, and when he awoke, his throat was always dry as ashes and his nose clogged with still-smouldering cinders. "I'm sorry," he offered softly, not sure how to verbalize how he was feeling. Those two words, although he meant them, weren't enough to close the yawning chasm between them,

"It's okay," she replied, even though it wasn't, and she crossed the kitchen to hug him, wrapping her arms around him and holding on tightly. "We'll get through this, yeah?"

Secure in her arms, he let his head rest gently against her chest, her collarbones sharp against his temples. "Yeah."

* * *

Even though Stella had a tiny fake tree – it couldn't dry out when she inevitably forgot to water it, and leave piles of browning needles all over her apartment – she still knew a few places to get trees, and so, bundled up warmly against the winter chill, she and Mac headed down Lexington and towards the closest lot. It had been pretty much cleared out, but they circled it together anyway.

"What about this one?" Mac asked seriously, standing next to a massive fir that dwarfed him in comparison.

Stella grinned, pretending to consider it. "I don't know how my upstairs neighbours would feel about the top poking through their floor. What about this one?" She raced over to the opposite end of the lot, crouching next to one of the baby trees, those usually used in cramped apartments and offices.

"It's cute," Mac admitted, standing back and admiring the scene. "I think it's a little small, though."

Stella jumped out of her crouch, the smile still spread across her face. "I thought so too." She paced slowly over to the middle, considering the medium-sized trees.

Mac ran his gloved fingers over the nearest branch, rolling the needles in his fingers. He raised it to his nose, inhaling the sweet smell of spruce. It smelled like Christmas.

_"So you had to pick the biggest one, huh?" Stella laughed, as they headed down the sidewalk, trying to avoid the other pedestrians, while toting a mammoth fir tree._

_ "It's a Taylor family tradition," Mac explained, "every Christmas we'd visit all the tree lots, looking for 'that one.' And then the day after New Year's, when everybody puts their trees out by the curb, my dad would drive us around the neighbourhood and see if we could find a bigger one than ours."_

_ "And?" Stella asked, eyes sparkling. Why was she not surprised that the Taylors had to have the biggest tree? It was so Mac._

_ "17 Taylor Christmases, never once did we find a tree that beat us," Mac told her, with a pleased grin._

_ "Oh, you must be very proud," Stella said teasingly, pausing to shift her grip on the tree, and hoist it up a little high._

_ Mac stuck out one gloved hand. "You know, we can rest here if you're getting tired."_

_ "Oh, this is nothin'," Stella scoffed, smirking slightly. "When I was in college, I used to haul my tree up 10 flights of steps all the way to my apartment in the Bronx."_

_ "Uphill both ways, in the snow, with no shoes," Mac chuckled sarcastically, eyes twinkling in the many lights._

_ "As a matter of fact, yes," she laughed, as they guided the tree to the front of the centre._

_ "Whoa, you weren't kidding when you said it was gonna be big!" the director exclaimed, smiling widely, as she greeted the two of them warmly._

_ "Ah, that's all Mac's idea," Stella admitted, helping Mac to stand the tree upright._

_ He grunted, supporting the weight of tree, and brushed the excess needles off his gloves. "Yeah, well, nothing's too big for a child who's had a parent killed in the line of duty."_

_ "So what's the latest on Santa and the elves?"_

_ "Yeah, well, It's all set and ready to go," Stella confirmed._

_ "You guys are the best," she said enthusiastically, surveying the tree happily. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"_

_ "Actually, we gotta run, we're working a day tour in the morning."_

_ "Back in at six," Stella added, with a grimace. She loved her job, but six was early. "Well then, Merry Christmas." _

_ "Thank you so much," she said, hugging both of them tightly, and turning to Mac as the two detectives turned to leave, "See you soon?"_

_ "Yeah," he replied, with a nod, and he and Stella began to head back towards their cars._

_ "Okay, bye you guys!" With a wave, she disappeared, and the got lost in the sea of people._

_ "That felt really good," Stella said with a grin, as the walked through clumps of people, navigating the snowy sidewalk._

_ "Yeah, it did," Mac agreed, warm with the feeling of making others happy, which was exactly what the holiday season was all about._

_ "You know, there is nothing like Christmas in New York City," Stella said, looking around fondly at the city, with the lights and Santas on every corner._

_ She was absolutely right._

"Hey, Mac, you okay?" Stella asked, lightly tapping his shoulder.

He spun around, letting the branch drop from his fingers. For the first time in a long time, he was smiling, eyes lit up more brilliantly than the lights of Times Square. "Yeah, I'm better than okay," he said, still looking slightly distant. "I remembered the time we got that tree for one of your friends, remember?"

"I do!" she exclaimed excitedly, throwing her arms around him in an impulsive hug. It was gratifying the way he didn't pull away the way he had of late, but rather leaned into her, nestling his head against her shoulder.

When they broke apart, Stella stroked the branches gently. "Do you want to get this one?"

"Why not?" Mac replied, sizing up the spruce. It was perfect: not too fat, but full. It had no obvious thin patches, and would fit comfortably into Stella's living room, in the spot they'd cleared before they left.

"Great!" Stella gestured to the man running the lot, and he and Mac picked up the tree, and wrapped it in twine. Once she'd paid, they hoisted the tree and began to head home under the brilliant winter stars.

They struggled up the stairs, laughing like teenagers as they tried not to bash into the wall. Stella squealed as the top of the tree dug into her thigh, almost dropping her end as one gloved hand flew to try and cover her mouth, but her teeth flashed white between her fingers. "Careful," she mock admonished, as Mac narrowly avoided knocking over the table in the foyer.

"Sorry," he apologized sheepishly, an impish smile on his face as he looked up.

After some careful maneuvering, they got the tree set up in its stand, and Stella emerged from her bedroom, carrying a box of ornaments. She set it down on the coffee table, and opened it, rummaging inside for lights. "Found them!" she called, waving the string of white lights triumphantly. She began to wind them around the tree, and stopped when she heard the radio switch on to a station that was playing classic Christmas carols, and Mac emerged from the kitchen, carrying two steaming cups of hot chocolate. Handing her one, he stood next to her, admiring the soft light from the tree. They both sipped their drinks in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly, moving to the box of ornaments, and digging through it. "Can I put on the star?"

"Of course," Stella said, watching as he approached the tree carefully, and stood on his tiptoes to place the star ever so gently on top of the tree. Once it was secure, he stepped back, smiling, face illuminated in the glow of the tree's lights.

"It's perfect," he said, wrapping an arm around her, and pulling her close. "Thank you."

"It was fun, wasn't it?" she said, leaning into him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"It was," he admitted happily, hand traveling south to sit gently on her hip. "I need that."

"We both did." She rested her head on his shoulder again, a curls brushing the bare skin above his collar.

Tentatively, Mac reached out and wound one of her curls around his finger, like he'd always wanted to.

"What are you doing?" she asked, moving slightly, so she was a little more in front of him. Her eyes were luminous, reflecting the white lights on the tree.

"I've always wanted to do that," he murmured, eyes never leaving her face. One hand gently smoothed her curls, the other still on her waist, warm and comforting.

She bit her lip slightly, eyes flicking down to her feet, which were clad in thick wool socks. He was too close again, like he had been in the park, and she desperately wanted him to make a move. Mac wouldn't have stood so close if he didn't want it, wouldn't he?

"What's wrong?" he asked in concern, fingers ghosting softly over her cheek. He reached out and twirled another curl around his finger, gently, reverently.

"Nothing," she replied, looking up at him again, chuckling when his hand found her hair again.

Her chuckle died in her throat as he tilted his head, and pressed his lips tenderly against hers, tasting white hot chocolate and _her_. Without questioning whether what they were doing was right, Stella responded, pressing herself closer to him, her fingers winding through the short strands at the nape of his neck, her other hand cupping his cheek, his five o'clock stubble abrasive under her fingertips.

Mac closed his eyes, and let himself enjoy the moment. Her lips were on his, the Nutcracker was playing softly in the background, and the Christmas tree was aglow. If he had ever thought about their perfect first kiss, this was probably it. He pulled her closer, so their bodies touched, burying his nose in the crook of her neck and inhaling her smell, sandalwood and chocolate.

When they broke apart, she smiled shyly, like a teenager after her first kiss, and he didn't try to kiss her again, just wrapped his arms around her and held on like he never wanted to let go.

* * *

Asfhiodfioejfioerjfoidjf they kissed! I initially wasn't even planning on that happening for a while, but then I got all romantic and decided to make it happen. So, um, I know it wasn't hot sex or anything, but it's a step in the right direction, yes?

Anyway, I'm so close to 100 reviews, which I'm ridiculously excited about, so I'd absolutely love it if you could review and tell me what you thought! There may even be a one-shot for the 100th reviewer. :)


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